


The Stranger In Yourself

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Break Up, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gay Bucky Barnes, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mentions of sex work, Panic Attacks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stalking, Therapist Sam Wilson, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6072091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is a recently discharged insomniac who's camping out at Natasha's house until he can get his life together again.</p><p>Steve Rogers works the night shift at a convenience store to help put himself through college. </p><p>Somehow their lives become intertwined, and even though Bucky barely feels like a person some days and Steve can hardly afford rent with all his medical bills, let alone tuition, once they're together it's hard to break apart.</p><p>Title from "The Stranger" by Billy Joel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> "did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself? don't be afraid to try again, everyone goes south, every now and then..."

The first thing Bucky does after being discharged from the army is eat. 

He's always had a healthy appetite, which his mother attributed to their Italian heritage. Natasha drives him to a Burger King, since he can't drive well with one hand yet, and he gets burgers and fries and three different sodas and revels in the flavor of each morsel. The woman sitting in the booth behind him watches him in amazement as he drains his Dr. Pepper and starts working on a cheeseburger. Natasha sits across from him, occasionally sipping on her iced tea, and neither of them say a word until forty five minutes later, when they're parked in front of the medical center that houses the therapist Bucky is forced to see, and Natasha says, "I'll pick you up in an hour." 

He gets out of the car and heads inside without bothering with his prosthetic. It annoys him more than it helps him. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, he walks inside, carefully avoiding looking at the people behind the front desk, and turns a corner to reach the elevators.

A middle-aged woman wearing threadbare tights and a worn business suit looks up at him as he presses the button to go up (third floor, down the hallway on the left) and her lip curls slightly. She pulls out her phone, which Bucky can tell from a quick glance is at least five years old, and pretends to tap on it violently as they wait for the elevator. When one does come, the _ping_ startling Bucky, she makes no move towards it. He enters and considers holding it for her, but she obviously doesn't want to be in a confined space with him, so he lets the doors slide shut. As the elevator ascends, he wonders if it's the one arm or his hair which is unwashed and tied back in a bun or the stubble covering his face because the idea of sliding a blade along his skin is still too much for him. 

The doors open again with another _ping_ and Bucky steps out, heading down the hallway to the left as instructed. He goes through the door at the very end, dodging a teenage girl and who he assumed to be her father as they walked out, and heads to the front desk. The nurse sitting there is on the phone and looks thoroughly annoyed, and she shoves a clipboard in his face without bothering to glance at him. Bucky takes a pen from the receptacle on the counter and sits down in one of the too-soft armchairs surrounding a coffee table littered with magazines.

He fills pages of personal information. He returns it to the front desk ten minutes later. The therapist, Sam Wilson, still hadn't opened his door yet. 

Bucky's alone in the waiting room, so he feels comfortable in leaning forward and snatching up a magazine, thumbing through pages of elegantly designed living rooms and kitchens without really looking at them. He hears the door start to creak open, and he's standing, magazine replaced on the table, by the time Wilson appears from behind the door. 

He has dark skin and a warm smile and says as he leans forward for a handshake, "James Barnes, right?" 

"Bucky," Bucky corrects, shaking his hand hesitantly. Wilson doesn't even glance at where his left arm should be, which he oddly appreciates. 

"Come on in," he says. He holds the door for Bucky to walk through. 

Wilson's office is painted a light blue and has a huge window on the right wall, flooding the room with light. Two tan loveseats sit on opposite sides of a coffee table that has a stack of books and a clear pitcher of water with two glasses on a tray. There's a rug and plenty of plants scattered around the room. A mahogany desk is on the left wall, underneath a couple diplomas and several pictures of Wilson. 

It looks exactly like Bucky expected it to, and that's inexplicably soothing.

"Have a seat," says Wilson, gesturing to the loveseat on the right, and Bucky sits, posture ramrod straight, as if waiting for another shell to hit. Wilson takes the other seat and smiles at him. 

"Alright, Bucky. Why are you here today?"

 

* * *

 

 When Bucky climbs into Natasha's car an hour later, she doesn't say anything, just drives off. They don't talk until she's zooming down side streets towards her apartment and the hospital is out of sight. 

"How was it?" she asks stiffly. 

"Fine." 

She nods. "I ordered Domino's. We just need to pick it up." 

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

Natasha's always been no-nonsense (comes with being part of Special Ops) but she gets some life back into her eyes by the time they get home, an extra-cheese pizza cooling in Bucky's lap. They stick it in the fridge, because they both sort of forgot that it was too early to eat dinner, and Natasha says she's going out. She waits by the door, watching Bucky carefully and judging his response. He doesn't say anything, but she seems to think it's okay to go, because he hears the door open and close. 

He sits on the couch and thinks about watching TV, but he doesn't recognize anything on the guide so he just turns it off again. Natasha's apartment is impeccably organized, so there's no point in cleaning. He tries to think about his hobbies before joining the army, but he can't remember any. He didn't have much free time. Between school and going to the gym near his house and taking girls out on dates (which was more to please his mother than anything else), there wasn't much time for him to paint or play a musical instrument or whatever it was people did as hobbies. 

Bucky ends up grabbing Natasha's computer and scrolling through Buzzfeed to waste time. He reads a few pointless articles that he doubts are completely true and takes whatever quizzes he can do with a straight face ("What Percent Dog Are You?" is not one of these). Eventually Natasha returns, her hair not perfectly straight at it had been when she'd left and her lipstick faded, and she takes the pizza out of the fridge and once she's heated it plops a few slices on a paper plate and sets it in front of Bucky. He eats, even though he's not especially hungry. She gets him a Coke and he drinks. She darts into her bedroom to change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt that Bucky faintly recognizes as his own from high school, then gets some pizza for herself and curls up at the end of the couch, flipping on the TV. They end up watching old  _Friends_ reruns until it's dark outside and Natasha throws out their plates and Coke cans and shows Bucky his bedroom, which was Natasha's home gym until Bucky nearly got blown up and the army discharged him. 

He's grateful she took him in. Really. But he already feels like a burden. 

Natasha doesn't seem to know what to say so Bucky just says goodnight and closes the door. He changes out of his sweatpants and t-shirt into a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with spaghetti stains down the front of it, then lays on his side on the full bed Natasha bought for him and stares at the windows, which have old beige curtains hanging over them. 

It's all wrong. The mattress and pillow are way too soft. It's too quiet. If there's anything Bucky learned from spending eight years of his life in the army, it's that no good can come from quiet. Closing his eyes seems like asking for something horrible to happen. 

He listens to the noises Natasha makes that drift through their shared wall. He hears her light flip off and a creak as she settles into her mattress. 

Time ticks by slowly. Bucky can't sleep. 

It's not for a lack of trying. He changes position about fifty times, trying to find one that's comfortable, but then he lands funny and pain shoots up and down his arm, which doesn't make any sense, because his arm isn't there anymore, but it hurts like hell and Bucky bites his lip hard. 

That's when he gives up on trying to sleep. 

He pulls on socks and stuffs his feet into tennis shoes and pulls back his hair, and double-checks Natasha's asleep before grabbing his wallet and walking outside. 

The night air is cool on his arms and he wanders the streets around Natasha's apartment. It's in the heart of Brooklyn, not far from where he grew up, actually, and Bucky carefully observes the passing storefronts, in case he needs to know what's where in the future. There are restaurants with their lights still on, a dive bar some drunk people stumble out of as Bucky passes. A thrift store. A laundromat. A convenience store on the corner. 

Bucky gets a sudden urge for potato chips and decides to go in. 

The kid at the front counter smiles at Bucky as he walks inside. He has blonde hair that fizzles into brown and piercing blue eyes that shine through his thick black glasses, and he's reading some sort of textbook. Bucky ignores him and walks toward the back. 

He has a small crisis trying to figure out what kind of potato chips he wants, but eventually decides on Salt & Vinegar, and ends up grabbing a chocolate bar for good measure. He goes up to the counter and tosses his stuff on it. The kid, whose nametag reads 'Steve', immediately closes his textbook and starts ringing Bucky up. 

He's older than Bucky'd originally thought. He's a small guy, but his face looks like he's at least twenty. 

"Find everything okay?"

And his voice is way deeper than Bucky thought it'd be. 

"Yeah." 

"Do you have a rewards card?" 

"No." 

Steve nods and Bucky hands him a five. Steve punches some buttons and promptly returns Bucky's change. His eyes hover over to his empty t-shirt sleeve, but he doesn't make any comment. Just sticks Bucky's chips and chocolate in a plastic bag and hands it to him. 

"Have a great night." 

"Thanks," Bucky replies stiffly. He takes the bag and heads back out into the night. 

There's a little park a few minutes down the street and he sits on a bench across from a homeless woman and some teenagers who have definitely been doing drugs and eats his goods, chocolate first. Once he finishes he disposes of his garbage and starts heading back to Natasha's apartment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's starting kinda slow, but it'll pick up from here. I have a ton of other writing stuff so this might be a tiny bit neglected, and the chapters will probably be around this length. Bear with me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	2. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's this guy. Steve starts seeing him a lot in the convenience store. Always around three in the morning. And he always buys potato chips and a chocolate bar for $3.16. And he only has one arm. 
> 
> Steve's pretty sure he's either just crazy obsessed with routines, or he's a serial killer with a strict schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for panic attack caused by a car backfiring. Also sorry for procrastinating. I'm very good at it.

Steve's a pretty regular guy. He's developed a bit of a routine over the years. 

He wakes up at eight every day, takes his medication, eats a breakfast of yogurt and toast, and chats with Sam before he heads to the office. Then Steve sketches a bit or reads before he goes to work at the diner. It's minimum wage, and a twenty-minute subway ride away, but he needs the cash and the head chef, Clint, sometimes lets him take home stuff that's already been cooked, which helps him save on groceries which means more money in the shoebox holding his college fund. And he could get pretty good tips if he wore tight jeans.

After he gets off there he heads home, changes, eats dinner, and sleeps until ten, when he takes a subway to the convenience store for his shift there. He works until five in the morning, then goes back home and catches a couple more hours of sleep before work.

It fluctuates a bit, but usually he sticks to it pretty well.

But this guy—he’s like clockwork.

He starts coming to the convenience store every other day. Always around three in the morning. He comes in, gets potato chips and a chocolate bar for $3.16, then leaves. Never stays long, never says anything. Steve would be scared, might think he was being stalked or something, if the guy paid any attention to him.

But he doesn’t. Barely even glances at Steve.

So, most likely, he _doesn’t_ want to murder/rape Steve. Which is most definitely a relief, even though he’s even more confused about the guy.

He asked Sam about it and Sam, with all his usual thoughtfulness, said, “Get the fuck away from my pie.”

To be fair, Steve had stolen the last piece of pie Sam’s mom had made at Thanksgiving, but still.

So Steve was left to figure things out by himself. He’d said hi once, but the guy had jumped and was still shaking when he’d left, so Steve didn’t try again.

Really, he doesn’t feel threatened, and he’s still earning money, so that’s that.

When the guy comes in that night, Steve smiles at him, and goes back to scrolling through paintings by Edward Hopper on his phone. He stops on “Automat” and examines the woman’s face while listening to the rustling of potato chip bags. When he hears the guy walk up to the counter he puts down his phone and smiles up at him again, then rings up the chips and chocolate. The guy glances down at his phone.

“That’s nice.”

It startles Steve, but he recovers fast and grins up at the guy, who looks slightly uncomfortable, like he stepped across a boundary he wasn’t supposed to. “Yeah, I like it. It’s by Edward Hopper, he’s one of my biggest inspirations,” Steve explains.

“Are you an artist?”

It’s the most he’s spoken to Steve in the weeks he’s been coming into the store.

Steve nods. “Sort of. I was in art school, and I usually just sketch but I paint sometimes, like if I get a commission.”

“Was.”

“Huh?”

“Was in art school.”

Steve fidgets, feels the muscles in his shoulders tighten. “Yeah.” He passes over the chips and chocolate, and the guy hands him three dollars and sixteen cents, which he deposits in the register.

“Have a nice night,” Steve says, and the guy sort of nods at him before stuffing his food in his jacket pocket and pushing open the door. Steve exhales deeply, tries to relax.

Then a car backfires outside.

He nearly falls off the stool he’s sitting on and his heart pounds as he tries to catch his breath. His fingers grip the counter until he can breathe normally, and he glances outside.

The guy is huddled on the ground, curled up in a tiny, shaking ball against the wall of the laundromat next to the convenience store.

Steve’s up before he thinks about it, not even bothering to yank on his coat as he bursts out of the door, hurrying up to the guy while fighting against the cold wind. He crouches beside his head, careful not to touch him.

“Hey? Can you hear me?”

The guy stares somewhere behind Steve, a panicked expression on his face. Steve swallows before trying again.

“Hey, I’m Steve Rogers. You’re in New York City, in Brooklyn, and it’s 2015. You just bought Salt & Vinegar potato chips and a Hershey’s chocolate bar from the convenience store I work at. It’s – “ Steve checks his watch. “It’s about half past three in the morning on December 2nd, 2015. You’re safe. A car backfired, but you’re safe.”

The guy’s eyes meet Steve’s and he jolts, jumping up and nearly knocking Steve over. Before Steve can say anything the guy starts sprinting, running like something’s chasing after him to the end of the street, then disappearing as he turns the corner, leaving Steve staring helpessly after him.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, the guy doesn’t come. Steve tries really hard not to worry. His routine is to come every other day. This is nothing out of the ordinary.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Steve can’t get out of bed.

Sam crosses his arms at him disapprovingly, setting the thermometer on his nightstand.

“You better call in sick to work.”

“’M not sick,” Steve mutters before a cough wracks his body, leaving his throat feeling like it was ripped to shreds. Sam just hands him a glass of water with an unimpressed look.

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles.

“Call in sick to work.”

Steve calls in sick to work.

Angie, who manages the diner, is cool about it, and Rumlow, the guy who owns the convenience store, makes his usual complaint about how he isn’t paying Steve to lounge around at home, but by the time Sam heads out Steve has the day off. He takes the ibuprofen Sam left and manages to drag himself to the kitchen to heat up one of those instant breakfasts that Sam swears once gave him food poisoning. Eating is slightly problematic, since his nose is so stuffed up he has to breathe through his mouth, but it works out and he watches _Friends_ reruns on TV, occasionally drifting off to sleep.

When _Friends_ stops he fiddles around with his phone. Clint sends him Snapchats of him and Angie making weird faces, and Kamala, one of the waitresses, makes frequent appearances in the background, making bunny ears behind a clueless Clint. It makes Steve laugh, which destroys his already-sore throat, and he sends them a few back.

Around lunchtime he orders Chinese, and his doorbell rings barely five minutes later. “You’re pretty fast,” he says to the delivery boy, who can’t be more then eighteen and is wearing a really cool silver jacket that matches his silver hair. The boy grins at him.

“I try.”

He hands over the food, Steve pays, and Super-Fast-Delivery-Boy leaves. Steve eats and watches the YouTube videos of cats that Sam sends him, and then he reads some comic books, and then he sketches some fanart that he might actually upload to his much-neglected Tumblr once he finishes, but then he loses interest and goes back to the pictures of Edward Hopper’s paintings he was looking at two nights ago. Which just reminds him of what happened two nights ago.

Steve shuts off his phone, wonders if the guy is okay, and promptly falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taking me forever to update, but I'm done with school now, so hopefully that'll help. Also this chapter is short. I don't really have an excuse for that except I've already procrastinated on this for almost three months now, so I figure something is better than nothing...right? 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments. 
> 
> Also Angie Martellini owns a diner and Kamala Khan works there and Quicksilver is a Chinese food delivery boy. I seem to enjoy putting Marvel characters at work in the food service industry. I have no explanation.


	3. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finally works up the nerve to go back to the convenience store. He needs to explain, somehow, to make Steve understand that he isn't usually like that, that he can be normal.
> 
> But Steve isn't there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is barely edited, so I apologize for that, but it is my second update today so I think that's an achievement worth celebrating. 
> 
> Also, apparently Jessica Jones is in this now? 
> 
> Sorry it's short, but that's the price I pay for not procrastinating.

Bucky hears the door to his room creak open, and continues staring at the chipping paint on the wall.

"Get up," Natasha orders.

Bucky ignores her. 

" _G_ _et up_. You have therapy in twenty minutes."

Bucky ignores her. 

Next thing he knows, he's being doused with cold liquid, and he jolts up, swearing. Natasha glares at him, sets the now-empty glass of water on the nightstand. 

"Get up."

Bucky gets up.

It's painful, almost, moving around, and that just makes him feel more like shit. A fucking car had backfired. He wasn't being shot at or anything. And now, almost thirty-six hours later, he still can't get a grip on himself. If Dugan could see him now...

He manages to pull on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and trudges into the bathroom. He rubs his stubble that really counts as a beard by now and pushes away the thought of shaving so he can grab one of Natasha's hair ties she'd lent him and pull his hair back in a bun. He could use a shower, but he doesn't have the energy right now. 

Natasha runs a sharp eye over him when he lumbers out into the living room/kitchen/dining room and deems him acceptable. She presses a thick jacket into his chest before they leave.

"It's cold out," she says sharply before pushing past him into the hallway and running down the stairs. Bucky pulls on the coat and follows her. 

She's quiet for the drive to Wilson's office until they pull into the parking lot. "What's with you lately?" she growls at him. "You've been worse than usual the last couple days, what happened?"

"Nothing," Bucky mumbles.

"You're full of shit." Natasha sighs, leans her head back against the seat. "I'll be back to pick you up in an hour." 

That's her kind way of saying  _get out_. 

The sliding doors make him flinch and he jumps away from the receptionist who says hi and the ding of the elevator almost sends him into a full-blown panic attack and Bucky is really messed up.

"You seem on edge today," Wilson says, and Bucky immediately stops fidgeting in his seat. "Did something happen?"

"No," he snaps, suddenly angry, and his fists clench. "No, nothing happened, I just have a fucking messed up head! Or did they not teach you how to identify that in shrink school?"

Wilson smiles at him.

"I'm a vet too, man," he says in his very calm, patient, infuriating voice. "I get it. Some days just getting out of bed is an accomplishment. Other days I can't even manage that. So come on, be honest with me—what happened? Car backfire?"

Bucky's eyes snap up to him, and Wilson's smile widens slightly. "Yeah, I've been there. People around?"

"S-Sorta," Bucky stutters out. "One."

"Oh, not so bad. I was out at a park, just after I'd gotten back, and I heard a car backfire. Went diving into this woman standing near me and threw us both to the ground, trying to get under the line of fire. Try explaining that to a group of angry people at a park."

"He helped me," Bucky mumbles.

"Really?"

"He...he grounded me, I think, and he didn't touch me...It helped."

"Guy knows his stuff. What happened after?"

"I ran away." 

"Do you feel bad about running away?"

"I..." Bucky frowns. "No, I don't think. Just...I don't want him to think I'm crazy."

"I'm sure he doesn't. Sounds like he's had his fair share of panic attacks."

"Maybe, but..." Bucky can't find the words, and he tries really hard not to get frustrated over it. "I don't know."

"Maybe you should talk to him. Clear the air a little. How would you feel about that?"

"Scared," Bucky confesses. Wilson nods.

"Good. Your homework is to talk to him."

Bucky stares at him. "But—I'm scared of it?"

What kind of therapist made you do something when just the thought of it sent you spiraling towards a panic attack?

"And once you do it, you'll see it wasn't anything to be scared about. Sometimes we have to keep climbing to realize that what we thought was a mountain was actually a hill."

"That's a terrible analogy."

Wilson laughs. "Yeah, my friend thinks so too."

 

* * *

 

Bucky stands pacing a block away from the convenience store, running through scenarios in his head. 

What were you even supposed to say in situations like this? 

The guy—Steve, his nametag said Steve—probably hates him. What kind of person runs off after someone helps them? He didn't thank him or anything, just started sprinting away. Steve looks like he had his shit together. (Sort of—jury's still out on that one.) Steve probably has no sympathy for someone who can't fucking handle himself when a car backfires and then just leaves without a word. 

He definitely hates Bucky. Bucky hates Bucky too, though, so. 

So. 

Jesus, it's cold outside. He's gotta just go to the store and suck it up or head back to Natasha's apartment, and crawl back into his bed to hide in shame. 

James Buchanan Barnes doesn't hide in shame.

Of course it'd be his damn pride that gets him in trouble. Bucky squares his shoulders, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and sets off.

He'll start with a  _hi_. Can't go wrong with that. Then,  _sorry about the other night_ , and it'll all be over. He never has to go back again, and will still have done Wilson's stupid homework. Bucky ignores the way his heart starts hammering as the convenience store comes into view. He can do this. He can do this.

He can't do this.

Bucky swivels around and sprints for the nearest alley, leaning against the brick wall of a building. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He can't breathe.

Fucking Wilson.

He turns on his phone to check the time. 3:56. He's spent over an hour trying to work up the courage to walk into this damn store. 

Fucking Wilson. Fucking Steve, with his stupid blue eyes and stupid skinny fingers and stupid bright smile. 

He has a great smile. 

Shit, okay, Bucky can do this.

He marches out of the alley towards the convenience store, blocking all thought, and he nearly slams the door open, mouth already open to launch into his planned apology. 

But Steve's not there. 

It's a girl with long dark hair, glaring at Bucky. Her nametag reads Jessica. She has green eyes and hands curled into fists and scowls instead of smiles.

"Can I help you?" she asks in a very sarcastic tone, and Bucky realizes he's been staring at her. 

"Um, yeah, uh—is Steve around?"

"I dunno, man," Jessica says with a shrug. "I just fill in when the usual guy's out."

Bucky's chest is heaving and he can't breathe and Steve isn't there. The past two days of turmoil were for nothing. He's not even there.

Is he avoiding Bucky?

"That's Steve," he says, "the guy...do you know where he is?"

Jessica shrugs again. "Sick, I think?"

He's so relieved he almost falls over, and Jessica gives him a look that clearly says _, what the fuck?_ But Bucky doesn't care. Because Steve isn't hiding from him, Steve isn't embarrassed or ashamed or freaked; he's just sick. Bucky leans against the wall and can finally breathe.

"You gonna buy something, dude?"

"Uh—sure, yeah." Bucky grabs a pack of gum from near the register, and Jessica scowls at him.

"96 cents." 

Bucky digs some change out of his pocket and manages to find four quarters, dropping them on the counter and stumbling back outside, ignoring Jessica's yells behind him. 

It's only after he's safely inside his bedroom that he realizes she was the first person he's spoken to other than Nat, Wilson, and Steve since he came back. Bucky sighs, too tired to really consider that, and flops onto his bed.

Tomorrow, he decides. Tomorrow he'll go back, and he could apologize to stupid, blue-eyed, smiley Steve.


	4. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a full week of Steve getting steadily sicker before he gives up and lets Sam take him to the hospital, and is told by the doctor he has pneumonia. The shoebox under his bed is emptied the same day Brock Rumlow tells Steve he's fired from the convenience store.
> 
> It's not a good week.

Steve feels sick.

It isn't the pneumonia, or Rumlow firing him ( _thanks for that, jerk_ ), or having to spend over a week in a hospital bed. It isn't even not knowing if the guy from the convenience store is okay, and having no way to get in touch with him. 

It's the fact that his college fund is gone. Again. 

He manages not to break down sobbing on the subway home from the hospital, but once he's safely inside his apartment he can't help the many frustrated tears that slide down his cheeks as he huddles against his front door. Over ten thousand dollars, just gone. He'd even been discharged early. But they had to do all these stupid tests because of his asthma and Sam wouldn't let him leave any earlier and they made him take all these fancy antibiotics...

And now he's left with just enough money to cover his half of the rent for that month, and nothing else. 

Sam is Sam, so he'd already offered to pay for rent and groceries and all of it, let Steve put the money into his college fund. But Steve is Steve, so he said no. Of course he said no. He can make it, he can do this...

Which was the same thing he'd told himself nine years ago when he dropped out of college. 

Twenty-eight, only one semester of college under his belt, unable to get a decent job, _definitely_ unable to keep one. It really is surprising he isn't dating anyone, because the combination of "constantly working" and "has no money" is irresistible. 

He can hear his mom's voice in his head.  _Steven, when someone pushes you into the mud, you have the choice to either wallow there in shame or to lift yourself up, clean yourself off, and jump back into the thick of things. You have to decide what kind of person you want to be. One who allows himself to be defeated, or one who rises and continues the fight._

Fight. Always fight. 

Steve wipes his tears away with both hands, rubs the wetness off on his jeans, and pushes himself to his feet, still sniffling. Their landline is by the front door and Steve dials the diner.

"Hey there, L & L Automat, serving the city of New York since 1946, how can I help you?" Angie chirps at him. 

"Uh, it's me—Steve, it's Steve."

"Brooklyn! You feelin' better yet?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if I can come in later?"

"Sure thing, hun, whenever you want. You can even come back to work now, if you aren't contagious or anythin'." 

Steve smiles in spite of himself. "No, Angie, I'm better now." 

"Well then come on down, Brooklyn, and we'll dust off your apron for you."

"Thanks, Angie."

"See ya soon!"

Steve hangs up the phone and scribbles a note down for Sam on a Post-it, grabs a banana to eat on the way to the diner, and hurries out.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Jersey!" Angie yells when Steve walks in. "Guess who finally showed up?"

"Steve!" Kamala shouts from across the diner. Steve waves weakly as she comes charging up to him. "Oh-my-gosh, I have  _so_ much to tell you. You know that fanfic I wrote?"

"The one with the mermaids?" 

"No, no, the one about Norse mythology. I got 2,000 upvotes on it!" 

"That's great," Steve says with a small smile. 

"Hey, you," one of the patrons says to Kamala, "can I get some more coffee over here?" 

"It's Steve!" Kamala exclaims, grabbing Steve by the shoulders and holding him out towards the guy. "Steve's back!"

"So?"

Steve escapes from Kamala's grasp and says, "I'll just go to the back, get my stuff." Kamala hugs him before he can get away and he's pretty sure she breaks a rib. He doesn't care. 

It's nice getting back to work, especially after two weeks of lying sick in bed. Some of his regulars welcome him back and Clint high-fives him whenever he walks past. It's fun, until a few hours later, when he hears someone yelling,  _"Steve!"_ from the front of the diner, and he flinches.

Sam comes barreling through the doors to the kitchen and storms up to Steve. "What the hell are you doing here?" He sounds more exasperated than angry. "Steve, you literally  _just_ got home from the hospital—" 

"I'm fine, Sam," Steve interrupts. 

"You had  _pneumonia_ , you need to _rest_!"

"I got plenty of that, I'm good." 

Sam sighs, and steps closer to him. "Look," he says quietly, "I told you I can cover you for this month—"

Steve glares at him. "I don't need your charity, Sam."

"It's not! You can paint me something, I don't know, do the dishes or clean the bathroom or—I just don't want you working yourself too hard and getting sick again, okay?"

"I don't need your charity," Steve growls, "and I don't need your pity. I'm twenty-eight fucking years old. I can take care of myself."

"You don't have to." Sam sighs at him again (Sam sighs at him a lot) and tugs him into a hug, chin digging into Steve's shoulder. Steve awkwardly curls one arm around him, painfully aware of the fact that people can see them, heart hammering the longer it goes on. Sam finally releases him and says very quietly, "I love you, man, I don't want you to work yourself to death."

"I won't, I promise."

Sam sighs  _again_ , and says, "Well, I'm hanging out here until you're off. If I hear  _one_ cough, you're going home. Okay?"

"Fine." 

Sam smiles and hugs him again. 

"You need to learn about personal space," Steve tells him.

"You need to learn to let me fucking hug you." Sam lets go of him. "Now, waiter, I'll have a cup of decaf coffee at whatever table I'm sitting at."

"Jerk."

"Great job, Steve, you just lost your tip."

"You're not even supposed to be back here, Wilson."

Sam sticks his tongue out at him, then beats a hasty retreat back into the main section of the diner. 

True to his word, Sam stays there until the diner closes, drinking cup after cup of his horrible sugary coffee, occasionally winking at some elderly women who frequent the diner and grinning at them when they laugh at him. He strikes up a conversation with a guy in the booth next to his and the next time Steve walks by they're sitting together, enthusiastically discussing whatever happened that week on  _Game of Thrones_. The guy leaves eventually, and when Steve refills Sam's coffee for what must be the eighteenth time, Sam waves around a napkin with a phone number scribbled on it.

"I got mad game," he informs Steve.

"You've got mad cheekbones," Steve corrects. 

Sam grins and pinches Steve's cheeks, and Steve immediately smacks his hand away. 

"I hate you."

"Please, you love me _and_ my cute cheekbones."

Steve, being the mature one of the two of them, sticks his tongue out at Sam, and goes to take a plate of eggs to Mister Edelmann. He can hear Sam bragging to Angie behind him.

When the diner finally closes, Steve slides into the booth across from Sam with his own cup of coffee, and Angie and Clint follow not long after. It's a sort-of tradition they have once a week, where they stay late to just chat and hang out, although usually Sam doesn't join them. Kamala stays sometimes, but she didn't work late that day, so she's already gone back to her dorms. Clint sends her a selfie with Sam, Steve, and Angie smiling in the background on Snapchat, and Kamala responds with a crying emoji and a selfie with her roommate Nakia. 

"Okay," Angie says once Clint's stowed away his phone, "I have news."

"Good or bad?" Sam asks. 

"Oh...both."

Steve nods. "Explain."

"So, I auditioned for a part in that new Broadway play, right? Just a minor one."

"You got it," Clint says with a broad grin. Angie beams and nods and they all launch into congratulations.

"That's great, Angie," Steve says, "you deserve it."

"Well, okay, but here's the bad news. Rehearsals start the day Peggy gets into town."

There's a collective, _"oh_ ," and Angie's smile slides off her face, middle finger tracing the rim of her coffee mug.

"Yeah. An' she's only gonna be in town for a couple weeks, so it's not like we could just sorta wait it out or somethin', y'know?" Angie sighs, and kicks off her heels. "So it's either give up the play and spend the two weeks with Peggy, or give up the only two weeks with her I'll get for six months, at _least_ , to do this play."

"The classic struggle between career and love," Clint says in a dramatic voice. Angie glares at him.

"Have you told Peggy?" Sam asks.

"Not yet. Figured I should have some sorta plan first." Angie sighs and pulls out her hairtie, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. "It's almost Christmas. I don't wanna leave her by herself 'round Christmas." 

"I don't think Peggy celebrates," Steve points out, trying to lift the mood a little, but Angie just shrugs. This is why he and Peggy decided they were better off friends. Neither of them handle this sort of messy feelings stuff well. He has absolutely no idea what he could possibly say to make this better. 

Sam reaches across the table and squeezes Angie's shoulder. "You'll figure it out. If it were me—and this is just my opinion—I'd pass on the play. There'll be a lot of Broadway plays, but there's only one Peggy."

Steve and Clint makes soft noises of agreement, and Angie smiles at Sam. "Yeah, okay. You're right, Harlem."

"I almost always am," Sam says with a flip of some imaginary hair, and Angie laughs at that. "Anybody else got any relationship crises for me to fix? Barton, how's it going with that girl you're not-dating?"

"Clint has a girl?" Steve says. "Has she seen his face?"

Clint scowls at him. "Yes, I have a sort-of girlfriend."

"Sort-of?"

"It's complicated."

They all watch him, but Clint just drinks his coffee, oblivious to their stares, and he sloshes coffee down the front of his shirt. "Aw, coffee, no," he whines, grabbing Sam's napkin to mop it up.

"Well," says Angie, "guess that's all the information we're getting on  _that_. What about you, Brooklyn, you got anything new?"

"Nope," says Steve. "A couple weeks back there was this guy who I was sort of hitting it off with—not in a boyfriend-way, just in a friendly way, you know? But it was at my other job and I got fired last week, so...that's that, I guess."

"You gotta name or phone number or somethin'?"

"No."

Angie pats his shoulder. "Well, chin up, Brooklyn. I'm sure your boy'll track you down somehow." She checks her phone. "I gotta go, I promise Peg I'd call her before I went to sleep."

"Isn't it, like, two in the morning or something over there?" asks Sam.

"Yeah, but she's up anyway workin' on her thesis, so she takes a break for a little while and we get to chat." Angie slides out of the booth and stuffs her feet back into her shoes. "I'll just wash up my mug—"

"We can do it," Steve says. "Give Peggy our love." 

"Thanks, Brooklyn, I sure will." Angie kisses him on the cheek, and Steve leans forward so she can gave Sam a hug. Then, with one last, cheerful wave, she walks out."

"We should get going too," Sam says with a pointed look at Steve. " _Someone_ needs a good night's sleep."

Steve rolls his eyes, but gets out of the booth anyway. "You can lock up, Clint, right?"

"Ooh, yeah, sure, let's just make  _Clint_ do all our dishes and locking up and stuff." He's already gathering their cups, and Sam and Steve exchange amused looks before saying their goodbyes.

Sam insists on taking a cab home, and once they're safely inside he asks, "What was that stuff you were saying about a guy?"

"What? Oh, Convenience Store Guy? Yeah, he didn't really talk to me but then he finally did, which was great, he liked this Edward Hopper painting I was looking at, and this car backfired as he was leaving and I'm pretty sure he had a panic attack or a flashback or something. He seemed military to me. And he was missing an arm, which obviously doesn't mean he definitely served or anything, but it would fit. But anyway, I tried to help get him out of it or something and he just sort of took off. I wanted to make sure he was okay, but then I got sick, then fired, so..." Steve's cheeks heat up and he ducks his head. "Sorry. Rambling."

"Dude, I asked. Don't apologize for answering a question." Sam looks suddenly distracted, staring at the back of the driver's seat, fingers tapping his knees. Steve would ask, but Sam just gets like that sometimes. When the tapping goes out of control, that's when he steps in, just like Sam steps in when Steve can't get out of bed for reasons entirely unrelated to physical illness. They have a system.

Sam's lost in thought the entire way back, and doesn't say anything until they reach their apartment building and he physically blocks Steve from paying the cab driver. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofread at 1 in the morning, so if there's any glaring mistakes, that's on me. 
> 
> Also apparently I wrote they were in D.C. in the first chapter? That has been changed. They're in Brooklyn, they always were in Brooklyn. This is what happens when you go three months without updating, you forget the stupid details you should've changed before you ever published. NEVER AGAIN!
> 
> I'm cutting myself off now, because sleep-deprived me is a dramatic, sarcastic horror. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. And, hey, it's about a thousand words longer than my average for the first three, so that's progress!


	5. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's so nervous to talk to Steve that all he can hear is his heart hammering in his chest, and he wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. He just needs to get this out, as quickly as possible, then he can leave.
> 
> But when Steve walks up to him, light glinting off golden hair and blue eyes sparkling, Bucky can't remember what he was going to say.

He's shoved against a vertical metal slab, and leather bonds quickly restrain his arms and legs, and no matter how much he fights against them he can't free himself. One of the men standing around him, face blurry, steps forward and slashes the bottom of his feet. Bucky screams and strains against the leather. "James Buchanan Barnes," he gasps out as they systematically break every bone in his legs. "Sergeant. 32557038. March 10th, 1987."

_"—ames!"_

More faceless men wander up, each with their own instruments of torture, and Bucky sobs out his name, rank, serial number, and date of birth over and over and over and over —

_"Wake up!"_

_James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, March 10th 1987, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557028, March 10th 1987, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038 —_

Something splashes on his face, and his first thought is that they're waterboarding him again, and the bonds have loosened around his limbs and he flails, striking something and feeling a hint of victory, at being able to stun them.

"Shit," someone mutters, and Bucky blinks. 

It's dark, and he is not in a cave/torture chamber. Natasha's gently touching her left eye and she winces.

Oh, God.

He can't breathe. 

_He hit Natasha he hit Natasha he hit Natasha_

"James," she says as Bucky curls up into a quivering ball, faintly registering that he's crying. "James," Natasha tries again. 

"I h-hurt you," he stammers. 

"Yeah, and I'll get over it." Natasha sits on the bed and even though she doesn't touch him, just her proximity sets him on edge, like she could whip out a knife or hot iron rod or hammer at any minute.

"You with me?"

Bucky nods warily.

"Need water or something?"

"Wanna be alone," he mumbles. He doesn't know how she can stand being so near him. He stinks of sweat and shame. Natasha looks momentarily upset, but she smoothes it over into an expression of neutrality, stands up, and walks out of his room. He instantly feels guilty for pushing her away, despite his relief at her not being able to touch him.

He can't do anything right. 

Natasha peeks back into his room a few minutes later. She's in a tank top and jeans instead of the shorts she sleeps in. Her hair's been re-straightened. 

"I'm going out," she says, not quite looking at him. "I'll be back in time to take you to therapy tomorrow."

Bucky doesn't say anything. He just stews in self-disgust long after he hears the front door click shut. 

 

* * *

 

He tries to tell Wilson about it the next day, but Wilson keeps fidgeting and looking uncomfortably at the coffee table between them, and Bucky stops talking. 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

Wilson's eyes snap to him. "Of course," he says. "I'm sorry, go ahead."

"Are you...sure?"

Wilson sighs and scratches the back of his neck. "I get anxious sometimes, and when I do I get certain OCD tendencies as a way of trying to control it." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, this is unprofessional."

"No, it's—it's kind of nice. Makes you seem a little more human, I don't know." 

Wilson smiles at him and shifts the books on the coffee table so they're in a neat stack, and as soon as he does he visibly relaxes. "Thank you," he says as he straightens back up in his chair. "It was still unprofessional, though. Now, back to this nightmare—"

 

* * *

 

"Mind if I talk to you about something?"

Bucky freezes, mid-way through putting on his coat, and says, "Isn't that what we've been doing for the past hour?"

Wilson chuckles. "I figured this should wait until we were off the clock."

"Okay..." 

"You know the guy from the convenience store you'd tried to get in touch with?" Bucky nods, wondering where this could possibly be going. "I know him."

"You—you know him?"

"Yeah. He doesn't know I know you, but he was talking about you and he's still pretty worried about whether or not you're okay. If you want me to set up a meeting so you can talk to him, I will."

Bucky stares at Wilson. He knows Steve. He can help Bucky talk to Steve. 

He's emotionally drained from the session, and he's so tired he can't think straight, so when he says, "Sure," it's more the product of momentary apathy instead of a gripping desire to look Steve in the eye and apologize for what happened two weeks ago. 

Later that night, though, as he tries not to sleep in case he has another nightmare, he thinks it's the right decision. 

 

* * *

 

 

Wilson tells him Steve works at a diner, and promises not to tell Steve he knows Bucky. He gives Bucky directions. 

Bucky listens in mild panic. To get to the diner Steve works at, he needs to take the subway. He can't remember the last time he took the subway. 

He's shaking when Wilson finishes and Wilson makes him stay a few minutes later, working on some grounding exercises because he thinks Bucky's about to have a panic attack. He might not be so far off the mark, actually. 

Bucky's finally allowed to go, and when he gets in Natasha's car she asks, "Everything okay? You were late."

He nods. Natasha nods. She pulls out of her parking space. 

They're both pretending the nightmare hadn't happened, to try and get back to normal. Bucky leans against the window and wonders when his idea of normal became so convoluted. 

He manages to get changed into nicer clothes by fervently telling himself that he's not  _actually_ going to leave the house, he just feels like dressing up. He faintly remembers that he liked looking nice before he joined the army and clings to the memory, although it feels like so long ago it might as well have been a different person.  _Just dressing nice,_ he tells himself. Like he used to. 

Shaving still isn't an option. He does make an effort to pull his hair into a neat little bun at the back of his head, and panics for a good five minutes over the fact that he has no clothes in his dresser that aren't sweatpants or t-shirts, until Natasha wordlessly hands him a pair of tight black jeans and a navy blue sweater, which actually looks decent on him. He considers trying to deal with his prosthetic, but Steve's already seen him with one arm several times, so there's no point. Natasha helps him tie the empty sleeve.

"Where you going?" she asks as he pulls on his Converse sneakers and tucks the laces inside rather than try to tie them one-handed.

"I wanted to eat a real lunch for a change," he lies.

Natasha stiffens, and he realizes he's probably just insulted her, but before he can correct himself she nods tersely and says, "Well, I'll come with you."

"I kind of want to be alone."

Natasha gets that rare, hurt look again, and Bucky says, "You can drive me?"

Natasha does end up driving him, and she doesn't say anything the entire ride there. When they pull into the parking lot, Bucky doesn't exactly know what to say, since he doesn't want her to hear his conversation with Steve but he also doesn't want her to just sit here waiting for him. Natasha ends up solving his problem for him.

"The cook here's kind of a friend of mine. Mind if I go in and chat with him?"

Bucky shrugs and gets out. 

An Asian girl with a purple sweater on beneath her apron smiles at them when they walk in, and says, "Sit wherever you want." 

"I know Clint," Natasha says. "Can he talk?"

"Uh, yeah, I think he's due for a break. I'll get him, you can take a seat. I'm Kate, for future reference, and Steve'll be with you in a sec."

"Great, thanks." 

Bucky picks a booth at the back of the diner, with a clear view of every door, while Kate opens the door to the kitchen and yells, "Hey, loser! There's a girl here who says she knows you?"

"There's only one loser here, Bishop," someone responds, "and that loser is not me."

"That's really good, Clint, how long did it take you to come up with that?"

A blond guy with bandages peppered around his face emerges and scowls at Kate. When he glances at Natasha, both their eyes light up. 

"I'll be outside," she says quietly to Bucky, and the man who Bucky assumes is Clint follows her through the diner like a particularly attached puppy dog.

"Wonder if that's the not-girlfriend," Kate says to someone standing next to her, and Bucky's heart starts pounding as he sees Steve nod, an amused smile on his lips. 

Fuck.

This was a horrible idea. 

Bucky had a script, one he rehearsed in his head the entire drive to the diner, but now he can't remember it for the life of him and he ducks his head as Steve approaches, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Welcome to L & L Automat, can I get you something to drink?"

Bucky glances up at him, and Steve's eyes nearly bug out of his head.

"Oh my God," he says. 

Bucky manages out an, "Uh."

Steve is staring at him. 

"Are you—Jeez, um, it's so great to see you," Steve says, a little more earnestly than Bucky was expecting. "How're you doing?"

"Fine," Bucky mumbles. "Wanted, to, um...wanted to apologize." 

Steve frowns. "Why?" 

Bucky flounders, and Steve says, "You don't have anything to apologize for, is all. I get 'em too sometimes." 

"Did you serve?"

Steve laughs a little bitterly, and Bucky immediately begins to backtrack, sure he's said the wrong thing. But Steve just says, "Wanted to. Turned me down on the asthma alone." He slides into the booth across from Bucky. "I was picked on a lot when I was younger, and sometimes I get freaked out and I think everyone's staring at me, just waiting for me to mess up so they can make fun of me again. That's when I get them."

"Oh," Bucky says, and then, because that doesn't feel like enough, he adds, "Sorry." 

Steve shrugs. "I am sort of an easy target."

"That doesn't mean it's okay."

Steve smiles a little at that, and looks down at his little pad, then jumps up suddenly, making Bucky flinch. 

"I am so sorry," he breathes, "I just sat down and I—I'm so sorry, you were just trying to eat and I just—I'm sorry, do you want water, or...?"

"Um," says Bucky. "I sort of came here to apologize to you, so...I liked talking? We didn't even talk that much, so...um..."

Steve seems to relax a bit, and Kate yells, "Sit with your boy, Rogers, I'll cover you!" Steve smiles at her and slinks back into the booth, cheeks red.

"Sorry," he says. "Did I make it awkward?" 

"No."

"Good. I'm Steve, by the way. I don't think we've ever actually introduced ourselves."

"Bucky."

Steve's eyebrows quirk and he grins a little. "Bucky," he repeats. 

"It was either that or James Buchanan, pal, so I don't need you judging."

Steve actually  _giggles_ , and it's the cutest thing Bucky's ever heard, though he's sure to shut down that particular train of thought before it can spin out of control. 

"I like it," Steve says. "You got a last name, Buck?"

No one had ever called him Buck in his entire life. Steve makes it work, somehow.

Then it hits Bucky that he's  _talking_ to Steve, and his heart starts hammering again. 

"Uh, Barnes. Bucky Barnes."

Steve smiles. "Steve Rogers."

He adjusts his big, nerdy (but cute) glasses. 

(It's the second time in about thirty seconds Bucky's used the word  _cute_ when referring to Steve, and he's not quite sure how he feels about that.

Except he is sure.

It freaks him out.)

He mutters, "I gotta go," and gets up, walking towards the door as fast as possible, knowing that he's just running  _again_ but he can't stop, he needs to get away,  _he needs to get away_. 

Nat's car is locked so he just huddles in the snow against the front bumper, out of sight from the diner windows, trying to breathe. 

_"Such a cute little thing," Pierce purred, running his fingers through Bucky's hair._

Bucky clumsily runs through the grounding exercises he's been practicing with Wilson but they don't work, because of course they don't, and the next thing he knows a voice is saying his name is James Buchanan Barnes and it's December 16th, 2015 and he's outside a diner in Brooklyn.

His eyes open (when had he closed them?) and Steve's bright blue eyes are right in front of him. 

Bucky's too exhausted to remind himself that he needs to cut Steve off before he gets any ideas, and he croaks out, "Sorry."

"Y-You don't have t-to apologize," Steve stutters out. He's shaking from the cold, arms crossed over his body. The idiot didn't even put on a jacket. 

Bucky shrugs off his coat and holds it out to Steve, who immediately starts protesting. "You're gonna freeze," Bucky mutters. "Just take it."

Steve glowers at him. "Come b-back inside w-with me."

"No."

"F-Fine. I'll j-just stay h-here." 

He crosses his arms defiantly, and Bucky shakes his head. "I'm just doin' this so your stupid ass won't get frostbite," he says as he gets to his feet and dusts some of the snow off his jeans. Steve waits for Bucky to start walking towards the diner before following him. He directs Bucky towards an empty booth and glares at him, which would be much more intimidating if his nose wasn't pink from the cold, then stomps off into the kitchen. When he returns, he plops a mug of something in front of Bucky, then sits across from him.

"I don't want anything," says Bucky.

"It's lavender tea. Drink it."

He didn't know Steve's last name until five minutes ago, and now he's ordering Bucky to drink lavender tea like they'd known each other their whole lives. It's weird.

Bucky drinks the tea.

"How do you feel?" Steve asks. The defiance in his eyes is gone, replaced by concern, like he actually genuinely cares about Bucky's well-being. 

"Fine," Bucky mumbles. "Sorry."

Steve gives him a look, and Bucky raises his hand in surrender.

"You sorta ran out on me there," Steve says, and the worry is laced in every syllable, turning a seemingly casual sentence into something more. 

"I do better when I have a script," Bucky confesses, because it's not technically a lie; he has to write out hypothetical conversations before something as simple as calling to order a pizza. "With the whole talking thing. Otherwise I can't think what to say and I get sort of overwhelmed, and...it's usually just better to leave."

"Do you feel overwhelmed when you talk to me?" Steve asks with a little frown. 

"I feel overwhelmed when I talk to everyone, pal," Bucky says.

"And here I was thinkin' I was the exception," Steve says with a teasing grin.

"You sorta are. I mean, I just—it hasn't been as bad. Usually I can't say anything."

"Well, I'm not saying I have a healing presence,  _but_..."

Bucky actually laughs, which startles him, but Steve just smiles. "Didn't you say you had asthma?" Bucky says.

"Hey, just because I have a healing presence, it doesn't mean it heals  _everything_."

"It's a picky healing presence."

"Are you making fun of my physical ailments?"

Bucky grins. "'Course not. Now, what ailments are we talking about exactly?"

"Asthma, anemia, high blood pressure, arrhythmia," Steve says, counting them off on his fingers. "I get colds regularly and I get at least one sinus infection each winter. I'm pretty much blind without my glasses and I had a ton of ear infections when I was a kid that left me a little hard of hearing." He shrugs. "That's pretty much it."

Bucky stares at him. 

"How are you even  _alive_?" 

Steve smiles at him. "Told you. Healing presence."

"You and your damn healing presence."

Steve laughs, and Bucky drains the rest of his lavender tea. "This is amazing, by the way," he says, holding out the mug.

"My roommate Sam keeps, like, 80 bags at our apartment, and he made me leave some here. The way he goes on about it, you'd think it could bring the dead back to life." 

Bucky nods. "Is a change of subject okay?"

"Of course," Steve says with a big grin. "Got a certain topic in mind?"

"Um, well, I looked at that art guy you were talking about." Bucky cringes. "'Art guy.' Bet you can guess exactly how many museums I've been to in the past year." 

Steve's eyes light up. "Edward Hopper? I love him. You—I showed you 'Automat,' right? Have you seen 'Nighthawks?'" 

Bucky shakes his head, and Steve immediately pulls out his phone, tapping away. He props it against a napkin holder and they both lean on the table so they can see clearly. 

It's painted like the viewer is looking into a diner. It's late at night, but the lights in the diner are on, and although the streets are deserted there are people inside the diner: a man and a woman sitting almost pressed up against each other, a worker who's getting them drinks, and a man sitting hunched over at a different part of the counter. He's near the others, but also hopelessly far away, staring down into his drink as the other man and the woman converse with the diner employee. 

"I love this painting," Steve murmurs, bringing Bucky back to reality. "It's one of the most famous pieces of American art of all time."

"Way to make me feel uncultured, Stevie," Bucky mutters, and Steve laughs softly.

"Sorry. I've just always been fascinated with the people." He points towards the man and woman sitting together. "They're definitely there together, but they don't look very happy. See her hand, here? It'd be the easiest thing in the world for him to hold it. But he keeps his left hand beneath the bar, and the right one is holding a cigarette. It looks like he's talking to the waiter here, and meanwhile his girlfriend—she doesn't have a ring, so she's probably his girlfriend—seems hopelessly bored. I think that they're there because they had a fight, and they didn't want to leave each other alone because they're afraid if they separate now they'll be apart forever. I think they do love each other. That's why he, even though he won't hold her hand, sits so close, keeps his left hand on the counter, where their fingers might accidentally brush. 

"Now the other guy, I think he's the opposite. The other two are there because they're already sliding towards losing everything, and they want to try and slow things down, even if they don't know how to stop it. I think he's already lost it all. He's just a shadow of a person—we can't even see his face—and he's hunched over, taking a drink of something. I think he's lost, and he comes to this diner late at night to try and cope with it all, when there's just the emptiness and quiet to keep him company. I think him and the others; they're two sides of the same coin, and this moment in the diner is when the coin is being flipped into the air, and they're just waiting to see what side it lands on."

He notices Bucky staring at him in awe, and his entire face turns red. "Sorry," he mumbles, "I got sort of carried away..."

"Steve, that was fucking incredible. Forget working here, you should be an art critic. Or just an artist, or an Edward Hopper historian or something." Steve laughs, and Bucky can't help but grin. "Seriously. That was...you just made me want to look at every Edward Hopper painting I can find." 

"You should, they're amazing."

They both just sit there, inches apart, grinning at each other, when someone clears their throat and they both jump back. 

Natasha's smirking at them. "James, I see you made a friend."

Steve quirks an eyebrow at him. "This is my roommate, Natasha," Bucky explains. "She absolutely refuses to call me Bucky."

"That's right," says Natasha, looking quite pleased with herself. "And you are?"

"Steve Rogers, ma'am. We were just, um..." He motions towards his phone, which still displays "Nighthawks." 

"Didn't know you were into art," Natasha says to Bucky. There's a glint in her eye that he does not trust  _at all_. 

"I should probably get back to work." Steve slides out of the booth and snatches up his phone. "Um, Bucky, maybe I could send you a few more Hopper paintings? A couple of my favorites, just to get you started."

Bucky grins and says, "Yeah, that sounds great."

Steve keeps blushing as he waits for Bucky to enter his phone number, which isn't helped by Natasha watching him, an amused but calculating look on her face, and when Bucky finally hands it back Steve thanks him and rushes off to grab a coffee pitcher and refill people's cups.

"Come on, Romeo," says Natasha as starts walking back through the diner, and Bucky trails after her, unable to keep the pride from such an unimaginably amazing conversation from seeping into his chest. He didn't mess it up. For once, he didn't mess it up. Steve liked him. Steve had his phone number. 

The  _is he going to actually text me_ _?_ dread has just settled into Bucky's stomach when his phone lights up.

**3475987649: Hi, it's Steve.**

**3475987649: Is it too soon for me to be texting you? I know there are rules about this stuff but I don't know what they are. :/**

Bucky unlocks his phone and makes Steve his third contact. 

**Bucky: well that makes 2 of us**

**Steve: :)**

**Steve: I hope you're ready, because you art education is about to begin.**

**Bucky: *your**

**Steve: SERIOUSLY?!?!?!**

**Steve: That wasn't even me, auto-correct changed it!**

**Bucky: Sure, Stevie**

**Steve: >:C**

**Bucky: what kind of emoji is that?**

**Steve: It's frowning. But like, /frowning/ frowning**

**Bucky: you are such a dork**

**Steve: >:C >:C >:C >:C >:C >:C >:C >:C >:C **

Bucky laughs at his phone and Natasha gives him a look but he doesn't care.

He talked to someone. Like, a full-on conversation. 

It shouldn't have to be celebrated, normal people do it all the time, but it's an achievement for Bucky, and at this point, he's willing to take it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like every chapter I apologize for writing this while sleep-deprived. Weird. It's almost like I should sleep more or something. 
> 
> But anyway, this chapter is mostly unedited, and I'm tired so I'm publishing it anyway. Please point out mistakes in spelling/grammar/just any mistakes at all.
> 
> The plot of this keeps thickening without me planning on it and I am so not doing it justice, but I hope you enjoy anyway. :)
> 
> Also, Kate Bishop.


	6. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries ignoring Steve. 
> 
> It doesn't go well.

Bucky spends the next day curled up in his bed, recharging his non-existent social batteries and glancing at his phone when it lights up but never unlocking it. He is so, so stupid. To try and drag Steve into his fucked up life...he is stupid and selfish and he needs to get a handle on the situation, ASAP. Which means he needs to push Steve away.

His phone chirps again. 

**Steve: Are you okay?**

**Steve: Are you busy? If you're busy I can talk to you later. You're probably busy. Sorry.**

**Steve: "What Freedom" by Ilya Repin is really good too. This is the last art recommendation, I swear.**

**Steve: Talk to you soon, I guess. :)**

Bucky turns onto his stomach and lets out a low groan into the pillows. A fucking smiley-face. Where did this guy even come from? 

* * *

Ignoring Steve would be a lot easier if he weren't so damn enthusiastic. 

The next day, Bucky wakes up to a text saying good morning and asking if he has any plans for the day. Then, all throughout the day, he views the continuation of the one-sided conversation, like Steve is completely oblivious to the fact Bucky's ignoring him.

He tries complaining to Natasha about it. She's unsympathetic. 

"If you don't want to talk to him, block his number and wait for him to get the hint," she says, then heads out for a date, because she is not Bucky and is therefore capable of having an actual relationship with someone.

Bucky pulls up Steve's contact on his phone, glances at the picture - a selfie Steve had sent him when a pigeon had landed on his head and made itself at home. He smiles a little in spite of himself at the expression on Steve's face. Scrolls down to find the 'Block this caller' button. 

The thing about Steve is that he's a genuinely kind person. Everything about him is 100-percent  _him_ , with nothing fabricated or enhanced. He's frank and honest and wickedly funny. Bucky knows he can't be friends with Steve - he's a bomb that needs to minimize his blast radius - but when Steve texts him he can't help but smile because it's usually either a joke or an art recommendation or even a picture of a dog once and Steve's so excited and passionate about art that it makes Bucky excited too. Steve's just a nice person to talk to, even though Bucky hasn't texted him since those first texts after leaving the diner. Bucky doesn't want to lose that. He knows he has to, but that doesn't mean he has to  _like_ it. 

But of course the one-sided conversation couldn't last forever. 

**Steve: Bucky?**

It's the only text he gets all day. 

* * *

 "What were you expecting to happen?" Natasha asks while she makes dinner (macaroni and cheese). Bucky sighs and his shoulders slump forward.

"I just thought he'd keep talking with me," he says.

"He's been talking _at_ you," Natasha corrects, brandishing a cheese-covered spoon at him. "You want to talk to him so bad, just text him."

"I  _can't_."

"Why not?"

Bucky makes a frustrated sound. "I...I can't..." He ducks his head and grabs fistfuls of his hair. "I  _can't_ , okay?" 

_"Why?"_

_"Because I can't_." 

Natasha goes back to stirring the macaroni. "Take a second. Come up with an answer."

"Texting one-handed fucking sucks?"

"A  _real_ answer."

Bucky glances up at her, then retreats back behind his hair. Natasha's supposed to understand. If Bucky can't even talk to  _her_ , how's he supposed to carry a conversation with a near-stranger? He can't come up with an answer because there is no answer, just a fucked-up brain intent on ruining everything good in his life - 

Natasha's looking at him out of the corner of her eye and Bucky tries to breathe, inhales and counts to ten before exhaling, counting to ten again. 

"I could help," Natasha says, interrupting his inner mantra of  _don't fuck this up don't fuck this up don't fuck this u_ _p._

"What?"

"I could help," she repeats. "I mean, if you - I guess if you needed help coming up with something to text him, or whatever, I could help you out. I am your wingwoman, after all."

Bucky stares at her. Natasha fidgets a bit and turns back to the mac and cheese. "Whatever. Just an idea. Do whatever you want, I don't care."

"No, I - I mean - okay?" 

"Well if you're so convinced," Natasha says flatly. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky mumbles. Natasha sighs and tosses her hair over one shoulder. 

"Dinner's ready." 

She hands Bucky a full bowl and he sits on the couch and prods the pasta with his fork as he stares at his phone, opened to Steve's most recent texts. Without warning Natasha snaps it up and before Bucky can grab it back he hears the sound of a message being sent. 

"What the hell?" 

Natasha drops the phone in his lap and sits down beside him, crossing her legs. "You'll thank me later." Bucky stares at his phone, still in shock.

**Bucky: hey**

Almost instantly, a reply pings through, and Natasha looks all too smug as Bucky jumps and almost knocks over the bowl of mac and cheese resting on his lap. 

**Steve: Hi!**

**Steve: It's good to hear from you, I got worried for a second there**

**Steve: I mean, not too worried**

**Steve: Just the normal amount of worry**

**Steve: Sorry, I should've stopped at hi**

Natasha peers over Bucky's shoulder, and says, "Tell him it's all good." 

"Nat - "

She gives him a look, and Bucky huffs but painstakingly types it out. He wasn't kidding. Texting one-handed really fucking sucks. 

**Bucky: its all good**

**Steve: Thanks :)**

**Steve: Did you get a chance to look at the art I sent you?**

Bucky starts to type out a yes but Natasha snatches the phone from him. "Honesty is the best policy," she chirps as she taps out a message. 

**Bucky: not yet. been pretty busy**

**Steve: Oh, that's cool! I didn't mean to bug you with it, my inner art nerd just got unleashed and you had to pay the price.**

Natasha scrolls through their messages and smiles a little. "You really should look at 'What Freedom,'" she says. "It's good."

"You're just biased because the guy is Russian." 

"I'm not the one whose idea of culture is reading the covers of trashy magazines."

" _Your_ trashy magazines." 

Natasha scowls. 

**Bucky: what are you up to**

"What are you up to," Bucky repeats. "Natasha, I'm trying to sound like less of a loser than I actually am, alright?" 

"Then do this yourself." Natasha tosses his phone to him, which he catches awkwardly in his hand. "You got a conversation going Barnes, all you gotta do is continue it." She takes a bite of mac and cheese, and cringes. "This tastes like crap. Knew I should've made it from scratch. Wanna get something from that diner on the corner? You can invite your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Bucky says immediately. He takes an experimental bite of mac and cheese and spits it back into the bowl. Natasha was right. It tastes like artificial cheese and cardboard mixed together. "I'm not that hungry." 

"They have fried mozzarella sticks," Natasha reminds him. "And every kind of tea and coffee you could dream of. Not to mention their breakfast stuff is amazing - "

Bucky bites his lip, and unlocks his phone. 

**Steve: I'm trying to draw. Keyword trying.**

**Steve: How about you?**

**Bucky: im going to dinner with my friend**

Natasha reads the text and smiles. "Wanna invite him?" 

Bucky shakes his head. "Not ready for that," he mumbles. "If we're doing this, we better move fast before I realize it's a horrible idea."

"That's the spirit," Natasha says cheerfully. She grabs their coats from the rack by the door, and they're off. 

Luckily, they're early enough to miss the dinner rush, and manage to get a corner booth in the back. Natasha keeps up an easy conversation most of the time they're waiting. Bucky ends up ordering the same thing she does, and can't even stomach the thought of doing so - he goes to the bathroom as their waiter approaches so Natasha can order for the both of them without making him look like a child. It's worth it, though. Bucky's bacon and egg platter tastes amazing, better than anything he's had in years. Which he doesn't tell Natasha. Even his barely-there mental filter catches that one. 

Natasha pays, they go back home, and Bucky collapses on his bed, exhausted.

* * *

The next morning marks a string of Bad Days, during which Bucky barely leaves his room. He doesn't talk to Steve. Rarely speaks to Natasha, and then it's usually only responding yes or no to a question. Much to Natasha's dismay, he also refuses to go to his therapy appointments. Natasha tries to make him call Wilson and explain what's going on, but Bucky doesn't  _know_ what's going on, so he just lies in bed and ignores her until she gives up and leaves.

Bucky really doesn't know what's wrong. Nothing's changed. He thought he was doing better, actually, talking to Steve occasionally and going out to eat for the first time in god knows how long. But he can't move. Can't pick up his phone from where it's fallen underneath the nightstand by his bed. Can't get out of his sweatpants and grimy t-shirt, can't shower, can't wash his greasy hair. It feels like he's being ripped in two as the part of him that's Bucky Barnes tries to hold on while this big, dark, horrible part of him claws at it, attempts to rip it away completely and leave only emptiness behind. 

There are Bad Days, and there are Worse Days, and on the Worse Days Bucky's convinced that dark part has succeeded. 

He thinks about killing himself. He doesn't really  _decide_ not to do it, but realizes any method of killing himself would involve him getting up, and he can't get up, so there's no point in considering that. 

He lies in a sweaty, smelly bed wearing disgusting clothes staring at a dirty wall in desperate need of a new coat of paint and listens to Natasha moving around and talking quietly on her phone in the other room in the same lazy way one watches a butterfly flutter around in the warm evening light; a part of you wants to leap up, close your hands around it, be amazed by the pattern on the wings and the knowledge you hold a life in your hands, but the rest of you knows you won't move from your spot where you watch it, because it's been a long day, and you're too tired and too old to go chase butterflies. 

Besides, if you did catch it, you'd kill it. And you'd do anything to keep that from happening.

One morning that's just like any other morning (Bucky couldn't name the day of the week if his life was on the line) there's a knock on the door, which he doesn't pay any attention to. Natasha gets takeout all the time. This time, though, he notices that the new voice doesn't leave - gets closer, in fact - and this time the knock is at his own bedroom door. 

"Bucky?" a voice calls. "Hi, it's Steve. Natasha said you weren't feeling well, so I brought you soup...Can I come in?" 

Bucky hears Natasha murmur something and then the door's creaking open. A part of him wants to jump up out of shame and keep Steve from ever seeing this place, with garbage and filth piled as high as the weights stacked neatly in the corner. He doesn't, though. He acknowledges he  _should_ be mortified, but that's the closest he gets to actually feeling the emotion. 

He can't see Steve in his current position curled up and facing the wall, the same position he's been in for...it feels like months, but days or weeks is probably more appropriate. The bed dips behind him. He hears the rustling of sheets and pillows. 

"I met my best friend Sam when I was eighteen," Steve says. "It was my first day in college, and I was just sitting in my room trying to figure out what to do with myself when someone knocked on my door and asked me if I played foosball, because he hadn't played in years and really wanted to but he couldn't find anyone willing to play against him. Only introduced himself after we'd already played three games. We became pretty close after that, despite the fact that he's a year older than me and was a Psych major, so we didn't have any classes together, and he lived on the other side of the dorms.

"I had to drop out after that first semester but Sam wanted to live off-campus anyway, so he offered to let me live with him. Ten years now, we've been roommates. Went on one date, but that didn't really work out. I was hung up on this other girl anyway. She was a British exchange student, drop-dead gorgeous, you don't even know. Sam ended up effectively asking her out  _for_ me. Name's Peggy. We dated for three or four years, but it was never...We didn't really have chemistry, you know? Not romantically. We were a bit too much alike. So we broke up and she eventually went back to England, and when she came back to visit she'd stay with Sam and me and we'd show her around. Introduced her a couple years ago to my boss, Angie, and they've been dating ever since. Peg's in England now, working on a PhD in History. Always was smarter than me. All I've got is that one semester of college. Never did manage to go back. Been working on it, though, so who knows?"

Steve keeps talking, and Bucky tries to listen but it mostly slips through his ears like stringy clouds, present but ultimately still intangible. What surprises him - or, more accurately, what vaguely interests him - is that Steve doesn't leave. He just keeps talking and talking and talking until his voice gets hoarse and scratchy, and even  _then_ he doesn't move. He must have a water bottle or something because Steve just pauses, then resumes his story about the summer he worked at an animation company doing filing and coffee runs, voice smooth and clear once more. 

At some point, Bucky's stomach grumbles, and Steve says, "I brought some soup, if you want it. It's cold now but I can go heat it up."

"Okay," Bucky croaks, which neither he nor Steve was expecting. Bucky feels the bed dip again and can hear Steve bustling around through his open door, can catch snippets of his conversation with Natasha. It doesn't really stick in Bucky's brain, but, then again, he wasn't expecting it to. Steve comes back, and when Bucky smells the soup he instantly starts salivating and allows himself to be guided into a sitting position on the bed. His joints crack as he moves. 

Steve sets a bowl and spoon in Bucky's lap, situates himself on the bed next to him, right arm almost brushing against the stump mostly hidden by his left sleeve, and jumps right back into his story. 

Bucky stares at the soup. It's split-pea, if the green color is anything to go by, and he gingerly picks up the spoon and scoops up a bit of the soup. It's thick and warm, steam curling off it in elegant puffs. He tries lifting it to his mouth but his hand is trembling so bad he's forced to drop the spoon back in the soup so he won't spill.  

Almost instantly, this bowl of soup becomes his Everest. His pride is on the line. Steve is  _right there_ , he could see Bucky's pathetic attempts at eating, would be offended if Bucky couldn't stomach the soup Steve made for him. Bucky has to do this one little thing, and then he can go back to staring at the wall in peace. 

Biting his lip, he repositions the bowl in his lap and grabs the spoon again, figuring if he holds onto it tight enough the trembling of his hand might diminish slightly. That , of course, doesn't work out, but Bucky manages to eat the spoonful of soup. It burns his tongue. He goes for the next spoonful. 

Little by little, the soup slowly disappears and for the first time in a while Bucky feels warm and full and content. He curls up against the wall and falls asleep almost instantly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I was at a writing camp pretty much all last month, and it kinda wore me out a bit. Never fear, though, because I'm back and more in love with the love between these two nerds than ever! Hopefully new updates will come soon. 
> 
> In other news, I read every issue of Saga in less than 18 hours. I have found a new obsession. 
> 
> Come say hi and complain about me not updating on my Tumblr, http://imhereforgaysuperheroes.tumblr.com/ . In terms of the kind of stuff I post, the url says it all.


	7. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's trying, trying to bring her best friend back to life, trying to maintain an actual relationship, trying to deal with all this shit that keeps piling on top of her. 
> 
> Everything just keeps falling apart.

Natasha wasn't sure what Steve was going to do when she stole James's phone and responded to about fifteen unread texts, telling him James wasn't feeling well. Showing up with split-pea soup was definitely unexpected. Sitting next to James when he smelled horrible and was obviously not in a good place wasn't expected. But talking to him for hours and making sure he had something to eat?

Natasha might have an ally here.

She had no clue how to handle James when he got like this and, though she'd never admit to anyone other than Clint, it tore her apart inside to watch her best friend try to self-destruct. They'd known each other since their first day in Special Forces together, a good eight or nine years ago, now. He's the only person who ever treated her as someone worth taking seriously. He'd always believed in her more than she'd believed in herself.

And now their entire dynamic has reversed and Natasha's the one trying to build him up.

She's read the websites, done her homework. Apparently just having a system of love and support is supposed to help, but it doesn't, because James doesn't have a system, just her. The rest of their unit is dead and in all their time together James has never mentioned friends from high school. He doesn't talk to his family, doesn't go out to meet people, started trembling when she'd just suggested signing up for an online dating site or something. It's not healthy, but she doesn't know how to fix it and part of her chirps that it's not her job to piece back together what's left of her best friend.

She can't not, though. She can't just leave him to fend for himself. She knows what would happen to him if she did.

Most of the afternoon is spent nervously pacing. Clint has a shift at the diner so she can't call him for some quick sex to get her mind off things, and she's trying to firmly commit herself to monogamy, so calling a random hookup won't work either. She has the day off from work and absolutely nothing to do.

Maybe Steve can stay with James and she can go to a bar, or see a movie. She's barely left the house - and then only to go to work - in the week James has been holed up in his room. She feels like she might be going insane. Natasha, unlike James, thrives off of human interaction; she likes people, likes figuring out how they tick, likes manipulating them while they don't have a clue. Her own therapist, who she only saw twice, thought she needed the control to counteract the lack of control she felt as a POW. Natasha doesn't need a PhD to figure that out.

Steve eventually emerges from James's room, holding the full container of soup and smiling. "Bucky's hungry."

"You got him to eat? I've practically had to force food down his throat."

Steve shrugs. "He says he's hungry. Do you have a microwave?"

Natasha points to the appliance sitting on the counter by the wall, and Steve goes to it, taking the lid off the container and sticking it in the microwave. "How long has he been like that?" he asks.

"About a week."

"Depression?"

"With PTSD on top of that."

Steve nods and stares at the microwave. "Well, I know a thing or two about that. I was going to sit with him for a little while longer, if that's alright with you?"

"Actually, do you mind keeping an eye on things while I go out? I've barely left the apartment, and - "

"Oh no, I totally get it. Go ahead. Not like he's any trouble." Steve gives her another shy smile. "Thanks for texting me. I was worried about him."

Natasha suddenly wants to start yelling, because there's no way Steve doesn't have romantic feelings for James, or isn't at least open to the idea of romantic feelings, and James doesn't need a crush piled on top of all the other shit he's trying to dig his way out of. She doesn't say any of that, though. James may not be perfectly capable of caring for himself, but he can't get any worse off and he has the right to decide those sorts of things for himself.

She smiles, tight and almost painful, and ducks into her room to get dressed. She pulls on her coat and slings her purse over her shoulder as she ducks her head into James's room. He's curled up, nearly pressed against the wall, and seems to be asleep. Steve is sitting on the bed next to him and gives Natasha a thumbs up and a smile. The thrum of anxiety fades away and she only feels relieved as she slips out of the apartment and hurries out of the building.

It occurs to her she just left her sleeping, depression-ridden best friend in the care of a virtual stranger. She doesn't dwell on it. Steve seems like a stand-up guy, and James has proven before that he can defend himself. If he can fire a gun, giving a distraction so Natasha can get to safety, while blood is gushing from his left arm, after over two months of being a POW, then he can handle a twig of a guy who looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over.

She sees a movie and gets her nails done and her hair re-colored a slightly more vibrant shade of red, and gets to the diner just as Clint gets off his shift. They go back to his place and only really speak after they've had sex and cleaned themselves up. Natasha is nestled into Clint's side and it makes her feel safe and secure for once in her goddamned life.

"How's Barnes doing?" Clint asks. Natasha lets out a puff of air.

"Not good. I'm not sure I can save him this time, Clint."

"You should'nt have to. He's not your responsibility."

"Yeah, he is," Natasha sighs. "There's no one else. He doesn't have any family or friends other than me. If I abandoned him he'd probably be dead within the month."

"I'm not saying you have to abandon him. I'm just saying you don't need to hold yourself accountable for his mental well-being. You went through the same shit he did, remember?"

"Not exactly the same," Natasha murmurs, sliding her left arm around Clint's waist.

"Close enough. My point is you should stop worrying about him so much and take the time to worry about yourself. Fix your own oxygen mask before helping the other passengers."

"You must be the only one who actually listens to those airplane safety presentations."

"Fine, if we get in a plane crash and you don't know how to use your seat as a flotation device, I'll just let you drown." Natasha snickers against his chest. "Um, speaking of planes, actually, I was gonna ask - my foster parents invite me back for Christmas every year, and now that my brother's out of jail he'll be going too, and, uh - I was wondering if maybe you'd like to come with me."

Natasha jumps up to a sitting position so she can see his face, certain she heard him wrong. "What."

"Or not," Clint says weakly.

"It's just...I didn't realize we were that serious."

"Oh. Um. Well, I mean, I know you wanted it to be casual, but I thought...Sorry."

"It's fine." Natasha's heart is pounding and she says, "I'd love to, but I've already planned to go to Russia for Christmas."

It's a lie. She keeps talking anyway. "I've still got some cousins there, they invited me, so."

"Oh yeah, that's great. That'll be fun, Russia."

"Yeah."

"It's cold there."

"I know."

"And they have. Um. Rasputin."

"Not really."

"It's cool. Russia. Like, it's neat, not that it's cold, even though it is. Cold."

Natasha nods and burrows back into Clint's side as he takes out his hearing aids, trying to get his expression of crushing disappointment out of her head.

* * *

It's almost nine in the morning when Natasha wakes up. She rushes to get out of the apartment; she didn't mean to fall asleep, and now James is alone and has been for who knows how long. Clint is still sleeping and she doesn't bother getting him up before running out the door and through the mountains of snow between Clint's place and her own. When she crashes through the door to her apartment, she freezes.

James is dressed, hair wet from a shower, standing at the stove.

"Hey, Nat," he mumbles.

"James," she responds curtly, still staring at him in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Making bacon." As if on cue, the bacon on the stove sizzles, and James scoops it off and onto a plate.

"Why are you making bacon?"

"Because I'm sorry."

"So it's apology-bacon?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you making apology-bacon?"

"Because I'm sorry that you have to put up with me and you shouldn't have to deal with that."

"James." He glances up at her through his curtain of dark hair. "You don't have to apologize, okay?"

He shrugs, hands her the plate of bacon, and disappears into his room. Natasha's phone pings and she realizes she has several texts from Steve, going back to last night.

**Steve Rogers: Hey. It's getting late, are you on your way back?**

**Steve Rogers: Hope everything's okay. I'll camp out here until you get back.**

**Steve Rogers: Good morning. Bucky's perking up a bit, I think he wants to get breakfast somewhere.**

**Steve Rogers: I had to go to work, but Bucky seemed a lot more lucid. He's making bacon so don't stop anywhere for breakfast.**

**Steve Rogers: Just got a break, is he still doing okay?**

Where the hell had this guy come from? 

Natasha fires off a quick text back confirming James was alright. She eats the bacon, and afterwards when she peeks into James's room he's cocooned himself in the blankets on his bed, Netflix open on the laptop next to him. He gives her the slightest of smiles. Natasha closes the door.

* * *

He gets better, more talkative, and Natasha starts coming home to find Steve and James lounging on the couch together, watching TV or playing board games. Steve works a lot, so he never stays long, but James is always in a remarkably better mood after talking to him, and it's also socialization with someone other than Natasha, so she'll take it as a win. 

And then, suddenly, it's Christmas Eve. 

She and Clint haven't spoken in three days. 

She was considering following up on her lie and booking a plane ticket to Russia, but she couldn't leave James alone at Christmas. Not even she is that cruel. It is a surprise though when she wakes up on Christmas morning to find Steve cooking pancakes in sweatpants and a thick blue sweater, Santa hat perched merrily on his head. He squints at her when she walks out of her bedroom. 

"Hi!" he chirps, flipping a pancake. "Merry Christmas!" 

"Merry Christmas," Natasha returns warily. "What are you doing here?" 

"Buck invited me over last night after work to hang out, but then it snowed so bad I kind of got stuck here? I camped out on your couch, I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's...that's fine." Now she recognizes the sweatpants and sweater as James's. "Are you guys fucking?" 

Steve instantly turns bright red and almost falls over as he stammers out a litany of, "No, no, we're not." Natasha stares him down until he recovers, still blushing. "He's my friend." 

Good. 

James emerges from his room and they exchange presents. James's present is a framed collage of pictures of the two of them, going back to that first day in Spec Ops, where they had big, bright smiles, blissfully ignorant of what awaited them. Natasha hugs her best friend and excuses herself to go to the bathroom so she can let out huge, shuddering, silent sobs. 

Once she's calmed down, she rinses her face and goes back out to the living room. Steve is back in his own clothes, wrapping a scarf around his neck, promising he'll bring their gifts the next time he comes over. James watches, hand tucked in the pocket of his ratty sweatpants. Steve yanks on a hat, then attacks James with a hug. James looks startled at first but the tension soon leaves his shoulders and he smiles a little, resting his hand on Steve's back.

Natasha can't remember the last time she hugged James. She can't remember the last time  _anyone_ hugged James. 

"You like him, huh?" she says to James after Steve's left. He looks up from the new (much better) phone she got him and gives her the softest of smiles. 

"Yeah," he says. "He's my friend."

He glances back at his phone and laughs, presumably at something Steve texted him, tapping out a response slowly. He doesn't even seem to notice Natasha when she gets tired of standing there waiting for him to say something and retreats into her room.

* * *

Clint doesn't come back from Iowa until January 3rd. 

Natasha hooks up with some guy from a bar January 2nd. 

* * *

"What the  _hell_ , Tasha?" Clint keeps running his hands through his cropped hair frantically. "Why would you even do that?"

"We weren't talking," Natasha says with a shrug, demeanor cool despite the fact that she feels like her insides have been shattered. Clint gapes at her. 

"But - we're still  _dating_. Sometimes people fight but that doesn't mean one of them should cheat on the other one!" 

"How is it cheating when we never said we were exclusive?"

"We may not have said it, but you don't see me sleeping around!"

"You're missing out, then."

Clint scrubs at his face, trying to catch the tears before they fall. "How many people have you had sex with since we started dating?" 

"From the first time we hooked up, fourteen. First time we went on an actual date...two."

Clint sniffs. "Including this one?" 

Natasha shakes her head. "We were casual," she repeats. 

Clint looks up at her, and Natasha's never seen him this angry, this hurt. "I love you," he says. A lump immediately forms in Natasha's throat. "But...whatever this is?" He gestures between the two of them. "I can't do it anymore." 

Natasha swallows hard and very pointedly  _does not cry_ as she silently gathers her toothbrush and spare phone charger. Clint walks her to his door. 

"Bye," he mumbles."

"Clint?" Natasha takes a deep, steadying breath before saying, "I love you too." 

Clint ducks his head down, closes the door, and she can hear him crying for those few moments she spends standing there before she sets her shoulders, lifts her chin, and heads back to her apartment like the last shred of normalcy in her life hasn't just fallen apart within five minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your amazing comments - they make my day! It's good to know you guys care as much about this story as I do. 
> 
> Back to Steve's POV with the next chapter, which I'll get out as soon as I can.
> 
> <3


	8. Steve

It's after his fourth panic attack that Angie stops suggesting and starts ordering Steve to go home. "You're not doing anyone any good by being here," she snaps. "Go home, Brooklyn, take a fucking bubble bath." She looks up and over at Clint. "You too, Barton. Stop crying into the coneys, it's not sanitary. So both of you get the hell out and take care of yourselves for once." 

They trudge out into the cold together. Steve wipes his nose on the back of his glove. "How was Iowa?" he asks in a raspy voice. 

"Shit." 

"Your brother was there, right? That must've been nice."

Clint shook his head violently. "The fucking bastard couldn't've waited a couple more days to pick a fight with a guard. Got his sentence extended. Then my fucking girlfriend..." He exhales, raking his fingers through his hair so sharply he probably left indents on his scalp from his fingernails. "Been a bad couple of weeks."

"Oh...sorry." 

Clint shrugs. "I was asking for it. Always knew Barney was a piece of shit, always knew I felt more for her than she did for me. 'S what I get for being optimistic."

Steve doesn't know what to say to that, and the residual feelings from his panic attacks are clawing at his skin, so he simply squeezes Clint's arm and bids him goodbye. His apartment isn't too far of a walk, but the piles of snow slightly complicate things and Steve arrives fifteen minutes later than he would've otherwise. He can't stop shivering and immediately goes to make a hot cup of lavender tea as he sends a text to Sam.

**Steve: Angie sent me home.**

**Sam: you okay?**

**Steve: Bad day.**

**Sam: lavender tea, bath, bed. your boy invite you over?**

**Steve: Yeah. Do you think I could cancel without hurting his feelings?**

**Sam: from what youve told me, he gets it, man. dont worry about him, worry about you**

Steve chews on his bottom lip as he waits for the water to heat up in the microwave (Peggy called him a heathen repeatedly for not using a kettle). He's sitting on the couch with his tea, some HGTV show playing in the background, before he can work up the nerve to text Bucky. He spends a good fifteen minutes perfecting the text. 

**Steve: Hey. I'm really sorry, but I don't think I can make it today. Are you free tomorrow?**

His stomach churns as he presses send. Fifteen minutes of revisions, and that's what he comes up with? Jesus. Before he can dwell on it further he turns off his phone and curls up on the couch to take a nap. His skin is being scratched raw from the inside and he doesn't sleep a wink, but the time passes, and that's all he wants at this point. 

* * *

There's a text waiting for him when he opens his eyes again. From the window, he can see the sun just barely beginning to dip down and his stomach gives a little growl. He rubs his eyes as he unlocks his phone, squinting at the sudden burst of artificial light. 

**Bucky: yes**

Steve's stomach sinks to the floor and his anxiety waltzes through the door into his mind, reminding Steve that he's only known Bucky for three weeks, that Bucky doesn't know him, let alone like him - he's Steve, and he's got a boatload of anxiety and depression and weird physical maladies that keep popping up and Bucky either feels sorry for him or is waiting for him to get the hint and stop, stop texting and going over to his apartment to play card games and just stop being in his life. And why wouldn't he want that? Steve doesn't have anything to offer - never has. Sam keeps him around because he knows Steve would be homeless otherwise, and you know there's something wrong with you when there are only two people in the entire world you'd call your friend and one of them is just taking pity on you and the other you've only known for three weeks. 

Steve felt connected to Bucky from the moment he helped coax him out of a panic attack, and he considered him his friend after he sat on that grimy, un-made bed for hours upon hours until his entire body was sore and stiff, talking and talking because he knew exactly how it felt, and it was so goddamned nice to have someone else who understood. To not feel like such a helpless idiot for being physically incapable of getting out of his bed, because even if Bucky was the only other one, it wasn't just Steve. He wasn't alone in that respect. 

And now here he is, shoving Bucky away because Steve can't just fix whatever is going on in his head. 

He rubs his nose and slowly taps out a text. 

**Steve: Schedule just cleared up again. Been a crazy day. Still up for cards?**

**Bucky: ok**

* * *

Steve is shivering violently by the time he reaches Bucky's apartment, and he is immediately beckoned inside, which is when he learns that Bucky is a total mother hen. He starts fussing over Steve and his lack of proper winter-wear (Steve was under the impression his jacket, hat, and gloves were sufficient, but apparently not) and he moves on to trying to warm Steve up. By attaching to him like a koala. 

"Is this necessary?" Steve says, voice muffled from where he's being pressed into Bucky's chest. Bucky just growls a little and wraps his arms tighter around Steve. Steve gives up. 

Once Bucky deems him sufficiently warmed up, they finally get around to playing cards. Not before Bucky forces Steve into one of his sweatshirts and a pair of fluffy socks, though. 

"Where's Nat?" Steve asks, trying to distract Bucky after he offers to make hot chocolate for the fifteenth time. 

Bucky shrugs as he lays down another pair of cards. "She hasn't been around much." He huffs a laugh. "Not during the day, anyway."

"Oh."

"I just wish the walls were a bit thicker, you know?" 

"I guess. Sam doesn't really date, so. Two?" 

"Go fish."

Steve takes a card, chewing on his bottom lip. "Um. If you - if you ever need to get out, or something? You can come over to my place. Sam won't mind. Just...yeah." 

Bucky smiles a little at him. "Thanks." 

Steve smiles tentatively back, until his phone starts ringing and he freezes, knowing exactly who's calling. He motions to Bucky, who nods, and Steve steps outside to answer his phone. 

"Where the hell are you, man? Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine, Sam, I'm at Bucky's."

"What happened to tea, bath, bed? I thought you'd rescheduled?" 

"I just...I feel like I need to be doing something, Sam, I can't just lie around all day." 

Sam makes a frustrated sound. "That's because you have both anxiety and depression! You are tired because you have a mental illness, Steve, and you need to take care of yourself just like you would if you had the flu."

"Sam, you aren't my therapist." 

"No, man, but I am your friend. I give a shit. So please, come home. We can talk in the morning, alright?"

"I - I'm playing Go Fish with Bucky." 

"Look, I can't tell you what to do, but I can say as a mental health professional that if you've had panic attacks continuously throughout the day you should be in a comfortable space using certain techniques to relax."

"Sam, I'm hanging up now, alright? I'll be back later."

"I..." Sam sighed deeply. "Fine. Let me know if you're gonna miss dinner so I can save a plate for you."

"Thanks, Sam."

"I love you, Steve."

Steve hangs up instead of answering. His eyelids are droopy and exhaustion has settled deep into his bones, like his body's forgotten that he napped for several hours earlier. He knows Sam means well. But...he's just tired. He's had a few long, hard shifts and it's catching up to him. A good night's sleep, and he'll be fine. 

He goes back inside, and Bucky looks up. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Sam was just wondering where I was." He drops down on the couch, head resting on the cushion. "Want to keep playing?"

"I was thinking that maybe we could just watch some TV? Maybe. If you're up for that." 

Steve smiles. "Sounds good." Bucky beams and Steve hides a yawn as he snatches the remote off the coffee table. The cards are set aside and Bucky moves a little closer, which makes the cushion dip and Steve accidentally slides into Bucky's side. Bucky doesn't mention it, so Steve doesn't either. At one point, Bucky yawns and stretches out his arm so it rests behind Steve's head on the cushion, and then Steve yawns, and between Bucky's warmth and the quiet noise of the TV, it doesn't take long for Steve's eyes to finally slide shut. 

* * *

Something shifts beneath him and Steve blinks awake, completely disoriented. It's dark outside, and someone is talking near him. 

"I just wanted to let you know so you weren't worried. This is a mutual friend thing, okay? I don't need it, I'm doing fine without any help. Look, Wilson, I'm not coming back, alright? Give it up. I'm fine. I'll wake Steve up soon and walk him home, okay? Okay. Bye." 

There's a sigh, then a gentle pressure on Steve's shoulder. "Stevie? Hey, pal, welcome back to the land of the living." 

"Whatimeisit," Steve mumbles. 

"About eleven. Sorry, you just seemed like you could use the sleep. You should go home now." 

"Okay Buck," Steve sighs, still half-asleep. Bucky helps him off the couch and bundles him up again in his winter gear. Steve stuffs his feet into his boots and shoves his cell phone into his pocket. Bucky's wrapped up in jackets and a scarf too. He looks...

"No way am I letting you walk around here this late at night," Bucky says, mistaking Steve's stare. "I know what kinda neighborhood I'm livin' in, Stevie. Speakin' of, where do you live?"

Steve rattles off an address, and they're off, stumbling through the freezing cold December night. Steve shivers so badly his teeth start clacking together and Bucky immediately draws him into his side, muttering something about body warmth. Steve goes along with it. 

"Sorry for fallin' asleep," he chatters out, rubbing his arms to try and warm up. Bucky shakes his head. 

"Don' mention it. Like I said, you looked like you needed it."

"I'm sorry I tried to get out of coming over." 

Bucky looks down at him. "Did you not want to?"

"I...No. I just don't want you to feel...obligated."

"Why would I feel obligated, Stevie?"

"'Cause no one likes hanging out with me," Steve mutters, shrugging. "But you do it anyway, so. Obligated." 

Bucky stops and Steve reluctantly stops with him. Bucky grabs his left shoulder, leans forward, and says, "Anyone who doesn't like hanging out with you isn't worth your time, alright? You're amazing, Steve, you - you're a great friend. I like spendin' time with you, I like  _you_. You're a sarcastic little shit who isn't afraid to speak his mind." Steve ducks his head down, but Bucky just grabs his chin and forces him to meet his eyes. "I like that, Stevie. I promise. I want you to stick around, if you want that too." 

Bucky sounds genuine, eyes gazing earnestly into Steve's, so seemingly sincere that Steve almost believes him. "I want that," he says. Bucky smiles and tucks an arm around him again. 

"I'm glad."

They're quiet the rest of the way back to his apartment. Bucky waves at him as Steve walks inside and promises to text him so Steve knows he got back alright. Then Bucky turns and starts walking home, empty sleeve flapping around in the harsh wind, and Steve takes a moment to watch him before pushing open the door and gearing up to explain himself to Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started this immediately after the last chapter, but then I had to deal with a ton of school stuff and I would've had this out earlier this weekend but I lost power because of Hermine, so. Yeah. It's been a little crazy. But it's out now, and hopefully the next chapter will be up soon!
> 
> My [Tumblr](https://www.imhereforgaysuperheroes.tumblr.com)


	9. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the inevitable backslide, Bucky finally starts to communicate, and he learns something about Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty guys, this chapter is dealing with rape - specifically, there are discussions of past rape and situations with dubious consent. If this is rough for you either skip this chapter or you can skip from, "It's enough to make Bucky speak," to the next page break, although it's alluded to throughout the chapter. 
> 
> There is also a bit of stalking - a character intending to cause Bucky harm waits in his area and eventually discovers where he lives. It's not too intense, I don't think, but it's something to be aware of. Now, off we go on our journey of angst.

Bucky is actually doing...okay. It's kind of weird, actually, just how well he's doing. He wouldn't call himself "better" - he still has a ton of shit to deal with, and that isn't going away anytime soon, but it's slightly less awful than it has been. Steve helps. He's something to focus on, someone who gets it even if he doesn't necessarily  _get it_.  It just proves that Bucky doesn't need therapy, so take that Wilson. 

In hindsight, he should've expected everything to go to shit.

* * *

It's the day before his birthday when Natasha suggests that they go celebrate at a bar. If Bucky's doing well at home, why shouldn't that carry over to the outside world? Bucky agrees, and invites Steve along, and Steve seems excited about it until a few days before when his heart starts acting up and he has to go to the hospital. That's also conveniently when he learns his hearing has gotten worse and he needs hearing aids, which Bucky learns from Natasha because Steve won't respond to any of his texts. He doesn't ask where she got her information and resigns himself to a boring (at best) birthday outing. 

They head out when it's already late, and Natasha immediately catches the eye of a man sitting at the bar. She leaves Bucky in a booth and goes over under the guise of getting them drinks. Bucky's eyes dart around the bar. Everyone seems to loom over him, the stares that might've once flattered him now set his veins on fire, makes him shift and try to somehow hide the emptiness of his left sleeve. His heart is pounding in his ears and his vision is blurring and god he can't breathe where's Natasha where's Steve  _why is everyone looking at him -_

Natasha comes back smiling with two beers and Bucky manages a smile back. It's probably more of a grimace than anything else but Natasha seems distracted by whoever she was talking too as she takes a sip of her beer.

"So, how does thirty feel?" she asks, painted red lips pulled into a smirk. "Got any grays coming in?" Bucky shrugs and a new guy comes up to them, leaning on the table in front of Bucky and grinning at Natasha. 

"I've gotta say, it's not every day I see a lady as beautiful as yourself," he says. "I'm George."

Natasha flutters her eyes and says, "Lucy." Bucky blinks at her. 

"This your boyfriend, Lucy?"

"No, this is my friend Bucky. We're celebrating his thirtieth birthday."

"Hey, Binky," George says without glancing at Bucky, who scowls. Natasha looks bemused. "So, Luce, mind if I buy you a drink?" 

"Why don't we go up to the bar," Natasha says sultrily, sliding out of the booth, "and if I feel like it once we get there I'll let you buy me a vodka?"

George smiles wolfishly and follows Natasha, leaving Bucky alone in the booth, wondering why Natasha had bothered bringing him along. He stares moodily at his drink, trying to avoid the eyes of everyone around him, until a harsh voice says, "Barnes?" and his head snaps up. Rollins is standing a few feet from him, sharp features morphed into a hungry expression. Bucky instantly paled and he subconsciously shifted so he was closer to the corner of the booth. 

"Well, well, well," Rollins said, moving closer and grinning as Bucky tried to sink through the floor. "Look who the cat dragged in. Been a while, huh Barnes?"

"Go away," Bucky mumbled. His eyes refused to budge from a spot on the floor about four inches from Rollins's boots. 

"Sure you don't wanna chat? Maybe we can go out back, relive the good old days." 

"Rollins, please go."

"Civilian life's made you soft, Barnes. What happened to the little spitfire I knew in Afghanistan?"

"Go."

Rollins leaned forward, hands braced on the table as he got closer until Bucky could smell whiskey on his breath. "I'll go when I want to go."

"Who the hell are you?" 

Bucky's eyes snap up. Steve is there, dressed in more layers than strictly necessary for March weather, fists clenched by his sides. He's glaring at Rollins with an impressive intensity while Rollins eyes Steve's small frame. 

"Could ask you the same thing, buddy."

"I think you should go," Steve says, tilting his chin up as if he was daring Rollins to object. "Buck? You want him to leave?"

Rollins smirks and turns back to Bucky. "Fine,  _Buck_. I'll see you around." He goes to leave, purposefully knocking into Steve's shoulder as he does and nearly knocking Steve over. Bucky realizes he's been shaking. 

"What was that all about?" Steve asks. His cheeks are flushed and he peels off his scarf and one jacket as he sits across from Bucky. "Was that guy bothering you? There's still time to beat him up, just say the word."

"It's fine," Bucky mutters, hiding his trembling hands in his lap. "What are you doing here anyway? You stopped answering my texts."

Steve looks a little guilty. "I know. I...I'd always been happy that I'd managed to avoid these." He gestures to the hearing aids in his ears. "And then...I was pissed, I guess. And my new heart meds are fucking expensive. Epi-Pens are getting pretty expensive too, and I have to pay for those out of pocket. But, um, anyway, like I said I was kinda pissed and I didn't feel like talking, but I wouldn't miss your birthday."

"You need Epi-Pens?" Bucky asks. Probably the wrong thing to focus on, but it's better than some of the alternatives.

"Yeah. I'm allergic to peanuts, tree nuts, and shellfish."

"Healing presence," Bucky remarks dryly. 

"Healing presence," Steve confirms with a slight smile. Natasha comes around the corner and smiles when she sees Steve. 

"Hey, I was gonna head off with that guy from earlier," she says to Bucky. "You'll be fine here with Steve, right?" 

A flash of anger runs through Bucky. He wants to yell at her. He wants to scream,  _Really, you're doing this on my birthday_ _?_ because Natasha can fuck whoever she wants but dragging him out to a bar just to abandon him after barely twenty minutes on his thirtieth birthday is kind of crossing the line. The urge to yell evaporates, and suddenly Bucky would like nothing more than to start sobbing into his beer.

"Yeah," he says. He starts to mention Rollins, but Natasha's already walking away, and Steve pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket that turns out to be a sketch of him and Bucky playing cards (" _This is just a placeholder present until I can get you a nicer one._ ") and it's easier to just stay quiet.

* * *

All it takes is that brief conversation with Rollins to send Bucky spiraling into hyperalertness and paranoia. Sleeping is a joke. Eating isn't much better. Every minute is consumed with fear.

 _I'll see you around_. 

It's a threat. Maybe an empty one, maybe not. Pierce is dead now, sure, but Rollins could be just as bad. Bucky isn't taking chances. He hides small cameras in the hallway outside the apartment, on the brick exterior of the building so he can see everyone coming in and out, on the window ledge so he has a view of the alley below. The windows are kept locked and reinforced and whenever Natasha leaves Bucky barricades the door so no human could get in without help or a battering ram. He doesn't leave and doesn't let anyone but Natasha in. Steve seems to need some space right now so Bucky can get away without seeing him, although he knows that won't last long. He spends his days on Natasha's laptop, flipping through the security camera feeds continuously.

Rollins won't try to break in. He's not stupid, and not a burglar, just a shitty excuse for a human being. But he could be anywhere, and that bar was close to the apartment. If he's surveilling the neighborhood, a slip on Bucky's part would mean revealing his location, and Rollins would be lying in wait not long after. 

Natasha notices, tries to force-feed him once, then gives up. A part of Bucky wonders what kind of shit she's dealing with right now that would make her ignore her best friend, but that gets pushed to the back of his mind. 

* * *

The slip comes a month later. 

Bucky's panic hadn't subsided, really, but after a month his guard is slightly worn down. Surely Rollins wouldn't still be looking for him in this area? It's this logic that convinces Bucky to go to the grocery store and do some much-needed restocking. He's shaking out of his skin the entire trip but he makes it through and is more relaxed on his walk home, thinking he's made it. 

Then he sees Rollins across the crowded street, grinning at him. Bucky swallows. The grocery bags are heavy on his arm and his lack of an exercise regimen is showing in the burn of his muscles. He can't carry them for as long as it'll take to shake Rollins. But the apartment is close by and Rollins cannot see him going in there. The idea of going to Steve's apartment crosses his mind - but no, he'd never bring Steve near a person like that, especially after their encounter in the bar. 

Bucky stands frozen, unsure what to do, when someone taps on his shoulder and he looks up to see Natasha. She glances at the bags. "Let me take some of those, come on, I'm gonna be late for work." 

And she leads Bucky (and Rollins) to the apartment. 

Rollins shows up on the security camera feed the next day, standing on the opposite sidewalk and leaning against the wall of a deli, and Bucky jumps up from the couch, breaking Natasha's computer in the process.

* * *

Which he has to explain, somehow. 

"I just dropped it," he says. 

"I was watching a scary movie and knocked it over by accident," he says.

"It was just lying there and I wasn't looking where I was going, so I stepped on it," he says. 

Unfortunately for him, Natasha has the world's best bullshit detector. "Tell me the truth," she growls. "Does this have anything to do with the cameras you put up?" Bucky freezes. "What, like I wouldn't notice those? What's up with the cameras, James?"

So he tells her about Rollins a month too late, and Natasha's entire face turns a red that rivals that of her hair. 

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me about that?" she yells, then, without giving Bucky a chance to respond, "God, I knew something was up, I'll rip that motherfucker apart if he comes anywhere near you again, I swear - Fuck, I've been so  _goddamn_ self-absorbed and selfish and weak and I knew you weren't doing well but I couldn't - I didn't know what to do, it was just easier to -  _FUCK!_ " Natasha whirls around and puts her foot through one of the kitchen cabinets, effectively reducing it to rubble. "I'll  _kill_ that  _goddamn bastard!_ "

"I'm okay, Nat," Bucky says weakly. "It's not your fault."

Natasha glares at him with such intensity Bucky suspects he might be going the same way as the kitchen cabinet; instead of attacking, though, she storms out the front door, nearly running over Steve in the process. As soon as he catches sight of that mop of blond hair, Bucky's stomach swoops. 

"Why are you here?" he asks, curling his arm around himself. Steve blinks at him and holds up a deck of cards. 

"It's Friday, we're supposed to play poker. Is Natasha okay?" 

"Yeah."

"She didn't look it." Steve looks at him. "What's going on? Did you have a fight?"

"Not really."

Steve catches sight of the former kitchen cabinet and his eyes widen. "What happened there?"

"Fell on it." 

"Is that a foot hole?" 

"Kicked it on accident." 

Steve looks at him again, concerned. "Buck, are you okay? Quit lyin' to me, tell me the truth. What's going on?"

"I..." Bucky shrugs. "Just forget it, Steve. It's fine."

 

Steve is very obviously unhappy with that, but he leaves it alone. Once they're playing cards Bucky strikes up an innocuous if awkward conversation and the subject is avoided altogether. 

Until Natasha returns an hour later, blood smeared across her face and t-shirt. She glares at Bucky. "Rollins won't be bothering you again," she grounds out. Steve immediately whips around to look at Bucky. 

"Who's Rollins? Wait - is that the guy from the bar that wouldn't leave you alone?" 

"Yep," Natasha answers without bothering to wait for Bucky to respond. 

"Why didn't you tell me he was still bothering you? How bad was it?" 

"Stalking." 

"Shit, Buck!" Steve runs a harsh hand through his hair. "Why didn't you say something?" 

Natasha crosses her arms and says, "He didn't even tell me," to which Bucky scowls. 

"Can I speak for myself in this conversation?" 

"You should've fucking spoke for yourself before, when you were being stalked! You know what Rollins is capable of!" 

"I wasn't being stalked," Bucky protests weakly, while Steve yells, "What the hell is Rollins supposed to be capable of?" 

Natasha fixes Bucky with a hard look. "First off, you  _were_ being stalked. Second, you wanna tell him, or will I?" 

Bucky looks helplessly from her to Steve, who's staring at him with this gut-wrenching expression of confusion and worry. Bucky does not want to say anything. What happened happened, that's not something anyone should have to dwell on - least of all Steve, who wasn't even there. Nothing good can come from this. 

But. 

There's a but. And it's the look on Steve's face. enough to make Bucky speak. 

It's enough to make Bucky speak. 

"Nat, could you give us a minute?" he asks quietly. Natasha hesitates but ends up nodding and heading into the bathroom, presumably to wash off the blood. Bucky rubs his face. "I knew I was gay when I was sixteen," he begins, and Steve thankfully stays silent. "It was never a big deal to me, really. When I joined the army, I knew that meant going back into the closet - Don't Ask Don't Tell was still in full swing, but it was more than that, even. Anyway. I did all my training, and I ended up getting put on a special team after - four years, maybe five. I was a good shot. People respected me for it. 

"But I was still gay, and I found a lot of other people who were too. It wasn't talked about, of course. You could just tell sometimes, and eventually, it became known that I could help people with their...homosexual frustrations, let's say. So one night I was on leave at this bar, and this older guy comes up and starts flirting pretty discreetly, got the message across. So I blew him in the alley." Bucky smiles dryly. "Wasn't until a few weeks after I found out he was my new CO.

"He's my CO, and he has proof that I'm openly gay. So he comes up to me later asking for a repeat of that night and I say yes, because what else am I supposed to do? Things continued like that for a while, progressing further depending on what my CO feels like that night. Then, about 6 months after the first time, I walk in and there's this other guy. And my CO tells him to fuck me. 

"I said no," Bucky adds, because it feels very important, what with the horrified look dawning on Steve's face. "I tried. I tried to leave, but - he could've gotten me discharged before I made it back to my barracks. I didn't - I'd been in the army for six years at that point. It was my place, you know? So, I - I did it, and the guy was there the next time too. Things got worse, after that. They'd tie me up, handcuff me, sometimes put a gun to my head. My CO had some fantasies, y'know? Eventually, a third guy got pulled in, and my CO would just watch while the two of them did stuff to me. Whatever he said. Um, and it's not like I could go blabbing about it, because - well, discharge." Bucky shrugs, eyes trained on the floor. "It wasn't that bad. Eventually, this happened" - he motions to his stump - "and I was discharged honorably, and the CO died a few days after I was airlifted to Germany. But, um, anyway, Rollins was one of the guys my CO brought in. He...liked it. The power. Could make me do whatever he wanted. So. Yeah." He shrugs again and rubs his left shoulder. "That's what Natasha was talking about."

Steve's still watching him, sadder now than anything. "I'm so sorry, Buck." 

"I could've stopped it. Just didn't want that kind of tarnish on my record. My own fault."

Steve looks mad at that, and he blurts, "I was raped when I was nineteen." Bucky blinks at him several times before he processes that. Even Steve seems surprised by what he said. 

"I, uh - I was a sex worker, for a bit, because I couldn't afford college and was knee-deep in medical bills; I probably would've been homeless if it weren't for Sam. One time a...a  _client_ slipped something in my drink. I woke up naked in a motel room the next morning." Steve lifts his gaze to meet Bucky's eyes. "It wasn't my fault," he says firmly. "And what happened to you was - Jesus, Bucky, it's so awful, but that wasn't your fault either. The only people to blame are Rollins, the assholes who created DADT, and the lump of shit that disguised itself as your CO." Steve grasps Bucky's hand. "I promise, Buck. You didn't do anything wrong." 

Bucky belatedly realizes tears are running down his cheeks. Barely a minute later and he's sobbing into Steve's shoulder, Steve's arms tight and protective around him. "I'm gonna kill Rollins, if Natasha hasn't already," Steve mutters, which sets off a fresh wave of tears, because someone... _cares_. And Steve, Steve understands, he gets it (and really, that's what's kept them together this long, their common ground and mutual understanding of each other). He knows what it feels like to lose control of your own body, he knows the crippling hate and blame Bucky couldn't help but place on himself, he knows that it doesn't make you weak. And God, Bucky could use that reminder. He hugs Steve and gives thanks to whatever deity might be out there that this was the man who coaxed him out of a flashback on December 2nd, 2015. 

* * *

It is July 3rd, 2016. Bucky Barnes cannot go outside during the day if he doesn't want to risk a panic attack, his sleep patterns vary from two hours a night to ten depending on nightmares, and he _likes_ Steve Rogers.

He realizes this a week before Steve's birthday, when he's wrapping Steve's present. It's a drawing tablet, one of the cheaper ones, compatible with Steve's laptop (Bucky checked, just in case). He's thinking about Steve as he does so; his hair and how he's always pushing his bangs out of his face, his eyes and the long, thick eyelashes that frame them, and  _hey,_ his brain offers,  _speaking of long and thick -_

Bucky drops the present and topples backward into the cabinet that had been very weakly rebuilt after Natasha's attack. He falls; the cabinet falls with him. 

When Natasha returns from work, he makes the mistake of telling her, and by the end of the week she'd successfully worn him down and sent him off to make a declaration of...like. 

It's a horrible idea. 

Bucky heads to Steve's apartment building, takes the stairs two at a time until he gets to Steve's floor, and he knocks twice on the door. What he isn't expecting is for the door to be opened by a brown-haired bombshell wearing nothing but a button-down Bucky recognizes as Steve's. 

"May I help you?" the woman asks in a clear British accent, smiling politely. Bucky glances at the door. Right apartment. Then where the hell is Steve?

"Who are you?" Bucky blurts. The woman's (perfect) eyebrows furrow slightly. 

"Peggy," she says. Right. Steve's ex-girlfriend. "Who are you?" 

"Um, I'm a friend of Steve's? Is he here?" 

"I'm afraid he's busy at the moment," says Peggy. "I can pass on a message for you, if you like?" 

Busy. Steve was busy, with his scantily-clad ex-girlfriend, at six o'clock on a Friday evening. Bucky got the message loud and clear. 

"No, that's - I'll just tell him when I see him. Later. Um, bye." 

And with that, Bucky flees. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I'm pissed about Epi-Pens jacking up their prices? I am. Not like lives are depending on them or anything. Grrr.
> 
> Also, Natasha leaving Bucky to go get a drink with what's-his-name was super intentional - NEVER ACCEPT DRINKS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THEM BEING MADE. DO AS NATASHA DOES AND STAY SAFE IN OUR VICTIM-BLAMING SOCIETY WHERE THE SOCIETAL NARRATIVE IS "DON'T GET RAPED" INSTEAD OF "DON'T RAPE." 
> 
> Next chapter will probably be from Clint's POV because I'm dying to write more Clint/Nat stuff. Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, you guys have no idea how much I appreciate them. <3
> 
> My [Tumblr](https://www.imhereforgaysuperheroes.tumblr.com)


End file.
